Days of Inspiration
by I heart scrawny Jewish boys
Summary: R for language. Pre RENT: Of how Mark and Roger met, flourished, and survived. Updated 12.01.05! You know you still read it!
1. The Life

Days of Inspiration

Disclaimer: I don't own them, but I do own an empty bag of chips. If you want it, sue. You can HAVE my student debts!

All belongs to Jonathan Larson, God rest his soul.

Credit for not just plot bunnies, but rabbits by the score complete with breeding ground (and for being the source of my own personal days---usually midnights--- of inspiration) goes completely and totally to Chelsea, who would be the Roger to my Mark if she were completely different.

Perhaps it's been done before, but I don't really care. I treat you all to my MarkandRogerpriortoRENT story, which I hope enthralles and captivates you all. Hell, I'd settle for a few reviews...

Chapter One (the Life)

"_Oh, honey, New York is such a BIG city..."_

"_You're sure you'll be all right?"_

"_I never thought this was a good idea..."_

"_You'll just screw this up too..."_

"_But Mark, all alone in New York..."_

"_Not sure you're ready..."_

Mark Cohen shook his head, willing his parents' voices to fuck off. He would _not_ prove them right, he had insisted, and look where that had gotten him. Lost somewhere in the Village with no clue how to read the subway maps, no idea where the bus station was, and without knowing where his friends had gone.

He didn't know how it had happened; one minute, he and the rest of his AV club friends, Andy, Trevor, Bruce, and Thomas, had been talking, laughing, and joking, glad to get away from Scarsdale (and their parents). There was a lurch on the subway, Mark had fallen over and lost his glasses, and by the time he had found them again his friends had exited the train, leaving Mark alone on the number six to God-knows-where. He had gotten off at the next stop, hoping his friends would reappear on the next train, but he had no such luck. He contemplated trying to take the train back, but after ten minutes of trying to decipher the code all New Yorkers seemed to be born speaking ('express but not late night ... local through Brooklyn...' a slew of seemingly unrelated letters and numbers) he gave up.

After waiting for the better part of an hour in the subway station trying not to look lost and alone, Mark headed up to the surface, glad to breathe fresh air again. Finding himself wholly unfamiliar with the street signs (not that he expected anything less, but it would have been a comfort to see Lafayette or something), he sighed, jammed his hands in his pockets, and started walking. Sporadically, he checked the beeper that his parents had insisted he carry _("But Mark, I don't like the idea of you alone in New York! What if there was an emergency? What if you get sick?_"), but there were no messages from his friends. Twelve from his mother, which he ignored, but none from his friends. It was pretty obvious the others probably hadn't even noticed his disappearance yet.

He walked for an hour or two, realized that he had absolutely no idea where he was going or what he was going to do when he got there, and resolved to sit down somewhere to wait. As he walked down yet another unfamiliar street, he found himself wishing he had his camera. That was the concession he had had to make in order to make this last-bash-before-graduation trip, leaving his camera behind.

"_But Mark, what if a gang of thieves saw you with that thing? I don't mind you having a little fun, but I don't want to have to drive into the city to identify your body! To think, my little boy mugged, lying somewhere in a gutter..."_

In the end, it was easier to give in. It usually was, with his mother. That didn't help his longing, though, as he took in completely unfamiliar sights; people huddled together under blankets for warmth, the blank stares of children from a fenced-in schoolyard, the unfamiliar sight of rusty fire escapes clinging to the sides of ancient apartment buildings. It might seem ridiculous to some people that Mark, growing up so close to the city, had never before witnessed any of these sights.

These people did not know Abigail Cohen.

The fact that he had even convinced her to let him go now surprised Mark to no end. He supposed she was finally coming to terms with the fact that she couldn't control his life forever, hard as she tried, and was trying to come across as "letting go gracefully" before he moved off to college.

It wasn't working.

Mark was abruptly jolted out of his musings about dear old mom when a stranger bumped into him, sending him to the ground in an ungainly heap.

"I'm so sorry," came a stricken voice from above, and the man he had bumped into extended his hand, which Mark accepted gratefully. The man seemed truly sorry, brushing Mark's clothes off and apologizing profusely before going his own way.

Looking around, Mark spotted a nice-looking cafe, sporting a sign: "The Life Cafe."

It seemed a nice enough place to wait until his 'friends' realized he wasn't tagging along as usual. Going in, he noticed that the establishment was cleaner than most of the cafes he had passed, and only a few people had chosen the same place. Sitting down, he chose a seat where he could see the window. He loved to watch people pass by, try and guess where they were going, who they were, what they were thinking. Filmmaker's mind, he supposed. Hoped.

He was watching some sort of high-powered business executive looking woman juggling two cell phones when a young man came over to take his order. "Just a tea, thanks," he said, going back to staring out the window.

Instead of leaving to get his drink, however, the waiter grinned and sat down across from him. "So, who'd you lose?"

Mark looked at him, startled. "What?"

The young waiter (now that Mark was really looking at him, he realized that he couldn't be much older than himself) just grinned wider. "You're obviously lost. I saw you wandering around, and you keep checking your beeper. Plus...no offense, man, but you look really nervous. First time to the city?"

Mark was surprised at himself. Usually, under such close (and accurate) scrutiny he would be grossly uncomfortable, but something about the other person set him strangely at ease. The newcomer was taller than he by more than a few inches, and looked strong. Blond hair, but bleached. Mark got the feeling the stranger would be much more at home in torn jeans and a faded t-shirt than in the uniform he was currently wearing. Liking this person for no reason, he replied, "Yeah, actually, it is. My friends and I got separated...I'm Mark."

"Roger Davis," the other said, sticking out his hand. "Musician, part-time minimum wage slave, dropout, and all-around general fuck-up." His grin, Mark realized, was infectious. Everything about this Roger seemed infectious, come to think of it.

Mark cocked his head, and remarked, "I thought New Yorkers didn't talk to strangers."

Roger laughed, a clear, honest sound. "But then you don't meet anyone interesting!"

He seemed about to say something else, but a loud throat-clearing sound was heard from behind the counter, and Roger immediately shot up. "Right," he said professionally, although Mark could hear the laughter in his voice, "one tea. Herbal or no?"

Mark shrugged. He had only chosen tea because it sounded like it would be cheaper than coffee. He was a bit low on cash after the whole weekend in New York, and really just wanted to sit, but most places didn't let you if you didn't buy something. "Whatever's cheapest."

Roger grinned again, and disappeared into the back of the cafe under the disapproving gaze of the manager. When he brought out a steaming mug, Mark said quietly, "I didn't mean to get you in trouble with your boss or anything."

Roger snorted. "Don't worry about it. I'm only working here until my band really takes off, anyway. We're really close to getting into CBGB's. You've heard of it, right?"

Not wanting to seem ignorant, Mark replied, "Oh, yeah. Of course."

Roger punched him in the arm, and Mark winced as Roger laughed again. "Liar. You're not even a good liar. You blush."

"Do not," Mark grumbled, but he knew he was blushing even then. His beeper went off right then, and he looked hastily down at it, only to sigh when he saw it was from his mother. Again.

Roger saw the look, and before Mark could stop him he grabbed the beeper, his eyebrows raising as he saw the slew of calls from the same number. He smirked at Mark before handing it back. "Clingy girlfriend? Is Mark whipped?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "Sure, that's it." _I wish._

Roger's smirk widened into a full-blown grin, yet again. Mark wondered idly if all that mirth got tiring, and wondered how Roger kept it up so long. "It's your mommy, isn't it?"

Mark glared at him from above his mug, eyes narrowing as Roger laughed harder. "It so is! Isn't it?"

"Shut up," Mark muttered. Instantly Roger's expression changed to one of concern. "Hey, man, I didn't mean it. We're cool, right?"

Mark stared at Roger. Something about this guy was totally different from anyone he had ever met in his life, somehow. "What is it with you? You don't even know me. What do you care what I think of you?"

Roger shrugged. "You're interesting. So, I'm interested. No big deal."

Mark snorted at the idea that he, of all the people in New York, was interesting enough to deserve this kind of attention. Roger Davis, he knew, would never survive in Scarsdale. He didn't seem to know the meaning of repression, which is what the inhabitants lived and breathed. The idea of a person that open with their emotions was foreign to Mark, and he wasn't quite sure how to deal. He settled for just saying, "Yeah, okay. We're cool."

Roger grinned at him again, and to his surprise, Mark felt himself grin back.

Roger leaned forward, toward Mark. "Why do you watch people?" he asked. "You do it like it's your job."

Mark shrugged. "I guess it is. I mean, I want to be a filmmaker. It's never going to happen, but it's what I want."

Roger looked puzzled before asking, "Why isn't it ever going to happen?"

"Do you know how few people make it in that industry? Besides, it's not like my parents would let me, anyway. I think it's against the law in our family to become anything except a good Jewish doctor or lawyer."

Roger looked at him incredulously. "And you always do what your parents want you to?"

"No! I mean..." Mark stopped. "Yeah, I guess I do. You know, it's just easier that way. Easier to do what they want than to fight them on it. Like, I'm going to Brown in the fall. But that's not what I want to do, it's what they want me to do. I figure, I can always minor in film or something. They can't control my hobbies." Even as he said it, he heard how lame his life must sound.

"That's totally messed up," Roger declared. "You know that, right? Mark, I'm gonna give you some advice. You need to grow some balls, and stand up to your mommy. You're eighteen now?" At Mark's nod, he went on, "You can't let your parents live your life! What the hell kind of life is that? Besides, even if you starve as an artist, at least it's the life that you've chosen. That's what I think, anyway. You know?"

Mark looked down. "I know. I'm working on it. The growing balls, I mean. It's just..." He trailed off, unsure what he was trying to articulate.

Roger stole a glance back at the counter, and saw the manager glaring in their direction. Rolling his eyes, he said under his breath, "I think you'd probably better pay. He hates it when people sit and don't buy." He looked apologetically at Mark, as if asking forgiveness for making him pay.

"No, that's cool," Mark said. He reached in the pocket of his coat, then stopped dead. His pocket was empty. Frantically, he searched the rest of his pockets, then tried to think when he had last had contact with his wallet. He had come out of the subway...his hands were in his pockets...he remembered feeling his wallet...and he hadn't taken his hands out until... "Oh, fuck!" he swore. "That bastard robbed me!" Seeing Roger look at him a bit skeptically, he rushed to explain. "No, really! I was walking and this guy bumped into me, and he helped me up and...that bastard, he robbed me! Fuck, that's got my driver's liscense, my emergency credit card, all my money!"

Roger, seeing how upset Mark was getting, said, "Hey, calm down, it's cool. You can get that credit card canceled, and you can get a new driver's lisence. Seriously, not the end of the world, man."

"But I don't have any money to pay!"

Roger laughed at him again. "Dude, your wallet was just stolen and you're worried about a tea? Don't worry, I'll cover you." He looked back at the manager, who had obviously overheard this exchange and was not happy. "Um, I think we'd better go, though. My shift's over anyway...you can wait for your friends to call at my place, if you want."

"Are you sure?" Mark asked, worriedly. "I don't want to impose...I swear I'll pay you back as soon as my friends show. Andy owes me some money from last night..."

"Man, I said don't worry about it. It's like, two dollars. I think I can handle it." As if to prove this statement, Roger reached into his pocket, pulled out three dollars, threw them on the table, then picked one of them up and put it in his pocket. At Mark's bewildered look, he quipped, "Tip."

Mark laughed. "You are so weird."

Roger winked at him as he shucked his apron, grabbing a grubby-looking leather jacket from behind the counter and signalling to the manager that he was leaving. Coming back to Mark, he murmured, "Don't mind him, he's been pissy since his wife left him."

"Ah," said Mark as they walked out of the cafe. "That explains it, then. He's horny and frusterated."

Roger sighed dramatically. "Aren't we all? Well, not me. But you, you seem frusterated."

"Fuck off."

Roger laughed and led him down the block to an extremely dilapidated-looking building. "This is it," he said proudly, "my place."

"What, the whole thing?" Mark asked.

"No, idiot, the loft. Come on."

Several flights of stairs later, Roger turned the key in an extremely beat-up door, which swung open with a bit of protest. "Home sweet home," he declared.

Stepping inside, Mark looked around in awe. He couldn't think of any place less like his family's five bed, four bath in Scarsdale. Instead of color-coordinated knick-knacks decorating side tables, there was what looked like sheet music scattered over the floor, on the table (which looked as if it had seen better days), and on what Mark could only assume used to be a chair. Instead of the compulsive order he had grown up with, there was rampant yet comfortable chaos, investing every inch of the loft with the feeling of being "lived in." The paint on the wall was chipped, the door to one of the rooms hung at an odd angle, and there was less furniture than he'd ever seen in a room. In the corner there was what looked like firewood stacked next to a trash can, for some reason, and Mark was willing to bed that very few of the food groups were represented in what passed for a kitchen.

It was perfect.

"God," he whispered. "My mother would hate this place!"

Roger laughed. "Isn't it awesome?"

"It's so...so..." Mark frowned. There was a word for it, for this existence. He knew it, but it wasn't coming to him. He gave up. "What is it?"

Roger caught his glance, knowing exactly what he meant. "It's bohemian."

"Yes! That's it exactly!" Mark marveled at Roger's uncanny ability to somehow read his mind. "You live here alone?" he asked, still in awe.

"Nah," Roger shrugged, taking off his jacket and throwing it on the table. "There's usually a few other people living here—you know, it helps with the rent and shit—but right now it's just me and Aaron. He's a little...well, he'll probably just stay in his room, so you don't have to worry about that."

At Mark's inquisitive look, he just shook his head, and Mark dropped the subject. Instead, he asked a question that had been in the back of his mind for a while. "Why'd you drop out?"

Roger shrugged again. "Didn't see the need for any more school. I sucked royally at it, anyway. Can't do math for shit. Funny, because I'm a musician. They say if you're good at one, you're probably good at the other, but hell if that's true. Can't do English or any of that either, but I can write. Songs, I mean. Not like, a book." He crossed to the table and reached underneath it, unearthing a battered electric guitar. Plugging it in, he hopped up on the table, strumming it idly. "That's what I do. In my band, I mean. The Well Hungarians." He winked at Mark. "Guitar. And I sing, you know. Just, like, with the band. I guess I'm like the front man. You know, the pretty boy that sells tickets." He smiled briefly, but there was another shade of meaning in the gesture behind humor. He went on, "I really want to write more, though. I think that's what I eventually want to do. I mean, it's awesome to be a rock star, and I'm totally going to do it once we take off, but unless you're Elvis, nobody's gonna care in twenty years. But if you write something..." his strumming had coalesced into a tune that he was absently picking out, something that sounded like it belonged in an opera, not on an electric guitar. "If you write, like, one great song, people remember that. And even if they don't know you, or if your name even gets forgotten, if you write a great song, you've got it."

"Got what?" Mark asked, entranced by the husky quality of the other's voice as his fingers moved over the strings.

Roger looked up abruptly, locking his eyes with Mark. "Glory," he said softly.

They stood there for a minute in silence, each understanding each other completely. The moment was broken, however, by Mark's beeper going off.

"Shit," he muttered, trying to turn it off. "Probably my mom again..."

But it was Andy, at some pay phone, demanding to know where he had run off to. "Hey, Roger, can I use your phone?"

Roger nodded, jerking his head in the direction of the phone. It was old school, with a cord and the numbers you turn. Mark shot Roger a glance, but he just shrugged. "It works," he explained.

Mark was inclined to doubt that, but refrained from commenting. In two minutes, he was off the phone with plans to meet his friends at the fourteenth street/Union Square subway station. It was a bit of a walk, but it didn't matter. He looked over at Roger.

"Hey..." he said awkwardly. What did you say to someone you felt as if you had known your whole life that you just met? "Uh, thanks. For, you know..."

"Don't worry about it," Roger interrupted. "And you can always crash here, if you need a place to stay or anything."

"Thanks," Mark said, casting his eyes once more about the dingy apartment, hoping it wasn't the last time he would see it. He smiled at Roger and headed for the door. "I'll see you around, okay?"

"Yeah," Roger said, "I'll see you. Good luck at Brown."

"Good luck at being a rock star," Mark retorted, heading out the door.

Back on the street, Mark shook his head. It had been a very unusual day, and he could see what his mother hated about the city. It was seductive, very seductive, and it was easy to see where so many artists of all sorts found their inspiration. _One day,_ he promised himself, _one day, I'll be one of them.  
_

Love it? Love it more than love can tell? Review!


	2. Free

This was supposed to be up Friday, but please, blame the fact that I had to work ALL DAY Friday AND Saturday for a stupid class (yeah, and didn't get paid, either!).

My wonderful beautiful reviewers! I love thee!

Mucho mas---er, _thanks_ to Mistress Flame, my first reviewer!

To Flipper: :blinks:um...wow. I've never met anyone so enthusiastic before!

Please know that this chapter is up earlier than it otherwise would have been due to your astonishing enthusiasm! And yes, Chelsea is one heck of a gal. :smiles fondly:

(Oh, and Chelsea says "..." which I took to mean "Thank you very much. Cash, not credit!")

Again, this would not be conceived, written, or good at all without Chelsea, my inspiration (insert appropriately mushy music).

I now treat you to yet another chapter written exclusively after midnight on a schoolnight. :shakes head: And my morning professors wonder why I sleep in class...well, they usually just think I'm hungover like the rest of the population. I don't feel the need to tell them I'm just drunk on fanfiction! Well, and reviews, of course!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Two ("Free")

Brown University, Mark decided a year and a half later, was a lot better when you didn't care what your report card said. Ever since an ultimatum from his father a week earlier ("_You're going to put that camera down and start a good sensible medical career, or you're going to figure out some way of paying your own tuition!"_), he had been enjoying his college experience to its fullest extent.

Somewhere in the past year, he had lost what little patience he had left for following his parent's decrees. He supposed that had much to do with the fact that in college, no matter who's paying the bills, each individual decision is for you and you alone to make. Not everyone could handle it, either. Mark had seen four or five dorm-mates slowly drink themselves braindead, spending most nights with their heads in toilets. He'd seen a former roommate crack under the pressure of self-sufficiency, leaving Brown altogether after a nervous breakdown. _Math majors_, he thought to himself. _Lunatics, all of them._

The completely novel sensation of being totally free, of living in a different town, different state, different life from his parents, was more intoxicating than the tequila the senior upstairs had smuggled to him as a birthday gift early his first year. He had begun simply not attending the classes he didn't like, sticking to the electives. When his first film was completed (a short mock-exposee of what _truly _went on in the cafeteria), he had sent his parents a copy.

When he had first heard his parents' reactions, he had been convinced he had made a mistake, and had wondered what had possessed him to do such an idiotic thing. His mother was worried about his declining grades, and his father had put a veto on any more filming until he was "back on track."

Now, however, he was positive that sending "She Wore a Hairnet" was a deliberate, intentional decision, and that he had known all along that this was what he had meant to do. Now that he'd had a taste of independence, there was no way he could go back. He couldn't give up film; he wouldn't get a job. Therefore, his days at Brown were at an end.

No longer worried about the next semester, he had immediately switched to the Visual Arts department, spending every waking moment either not attending Art History to work on his latest screenplay, or sneaking into the Performing Arts classes, experimenting with angles and zooms on more-than-willing fledgling actors. The professor had been adamantly against Mark's attendance at first, but he had somehow managed to win her over by promising her a part in his final for his digital imaging course. She didn't know that he would be long gone by final time, and he didn't feel the need to enlighten her.

For the first time he could remember since leaving New York City, he felt truly alive. Not just in bursts, like that day so long ago, but all the time. Life, he realized, was thrilling. Captivating. It had become harder and harder for him to fade into the background this past few weeks, he realized. There were days when, for all his passion for his work, he just wanted to put the camera down and join in the dance.

The last night of the semester, Mark couldn't sleep. He lay on his bed wide awake, reflecting. All his possessions were packed neatly into boxes with his parents' address printed on the sides, ready to be shipped in the morning. In a bag by the doorway sat a toothbrush, toothpaste, a few changes of clothes, his camera, a sheaf of screenplays, and his savings (which amounted to a grand total of three hundred dollars; it had been more like a thousand, but he had bought himself a brand-new camera as a dropping-out-of-college present).

"Where're you going next?" asked Mark's roommate Benny. It had been Musical Roommates for a while; after his first roommate had suffered his breakdown, Mark had been saddled with an anal retentive who couldn't stand the bits of paper, electronics, food, and dirty laundry that seemed to blanket Mark's side of the room, and had filed for a room transfer in two days. Benny was his fourth roommate, after the third guy had transferred to Cornell at semester.

"New York," Mark answered confidently. It had been all he could think about since he had made the decision to leave. He remembered how inspired he had felt, laying eyes on the skyline for the first time. He remembered the lights hundreds of stories in the air, remembered the way life seemed to speed up, remembered the feeling of the wind rushing by between alleyways, as if it too were in a hurry to get someplace. Most of all, he remembered the look on his mother's face when he told her his plans; shock, horror, and a desperate attempt to look like she was happy for him. Priceless.

Benny looked over at him skeptically. "You're going to starve. You know that, right? I mean, how did you even afford to pay for that camera? You never work."

Mark chuckled bitterly. "My dad. It's the only thing he ever gave me. I remember..." his eyes unfocused as he stared at the ceiling, "every year on my birthday, he would come home from work, my mom would go over to him, and whisper something in his ear. He would shrug, then he'd come over to me, take out his wallet, hand me a fifty, say 'Happy Birthday,' grab a beer, and head upstairs."

"Man, that's cold."

Mark shrugged. "Could be worse. He never hit me, or anything. Never called me names. He just...wasn't there." Now, Cindy, his father had known what to do with her. He'd just kiss her on the head, and give her something pink. She'd pretend to like it, because she knew he'd tried, and he thought she was easy to please, and he'd feel like a good father. It was just enough for him to be able to forget that he had another child, a child who wasn't quite as easy to understand. A son, but a son who was afraid of the ball. A son who was smart, but didn't like to read. A son who he was sure dreamed of something, but who ever heard of making a living from a camera? Eventually, their relationship dwindled down to the last sentence of his father's letter: _"Call when you do something right."_

"You know where you're going to stay?"

Mark laughed. "Not a clue. That's the point! It's all about going out there, and just...living, you know? That's what I need to do."

Benny looked as if he were about to ask something, but stopped himself. "Yeah, well, okay. Call me when you get a place...maybe I'll be tired of this place by then. You're gonna need a roommate, or else who's gonna pay your rent?"

Less than twenty-four hours later, Mark was on a train to NYC, feeling more complete than he could ever remember feeling in his life. He had his camera, he had a little money, he had his dream, and he was going to New York City. Life was good. Best of all, his parents were history. They didn't know where he was staying, because _he_ didn't know where he was staying. They couldn't call, because he didn't have a phone. They couldn't put down what he was doing, because they didn't know what he was doing. He would miss Cindy a little, but he'd gotten used to it in college. They'd always gotten along pretty well; when he broke an expensive vase, she'd covered for him, and when she stayed out late with a boy, Mark covered for her. Four years was enough an age difference so they weren't constantly competing, and even though Mark had always felt that she was favored a bit, he didn't mind. It allowed him to shrink into the background, to disappear. He'd always been the observer..._no more,_ he vowed silently. _From now on, I live. I'm going to live, and love, and starve, and get burned. _He pressed his nose against the window, struggling to catch a glimpse of the far-off skyline. _It's life on my terms._

He turned his camera on the second he stepped off the train and began narrating to himself. "December seventeenth, five pm. Eastern Standard Time. Mark's first day in the Big Apple."

For hours he wandered the city streets, not going anywhere specific. He filmed anything and everything, getting really excited when he found something he could incorporate into one of his scripts. He soaked in the city, tried to capture on film everything he'd seen that first day so long ago. He panned up the fire escapes, tried to film the homeless without being obtrusive, swept across barren urban parks. He at little; a pretzel from a street vendor, a soda from a vending machine outside a supermarket. He ignored as best as he could everything tourist-y; he skirted Times Square, declined to have his name on a grain of rice, didn't film the Statue of Liberty. He filmed plenty of people shamelessly indulging in these pleasures, however. He walked until his feet were sore and his battery was dying, then decided to find a hotel room.

There were varying stages of feeling adult, he realized. There was puberty, trying to acknowledge that your body was no longer that of a child. There was the feeling you get from moving away from home the first time with instructions to call that night. There was the absolute freedom of having no one in the world to answer to. But there was also, he thought as he payed for his room, the feeling of competency. He pulled a fifty out of his pocket, but couldn't shake the feeling that that was something his father would do.

All his fears and reservations about being alone in the city (for some reason his mother's voice constantly echoed in his head) melted away as soon as his head hit the pillow. The only thoughts in his head as he drifted off to sleep were that he was nineteen, he was in New York City, and he was free.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And the next chapter will likely be up later today!


	3. If You're Cold and You're Lonely

Okay, so I'm a filthy liar and this wasn't up yesterday. So sue me.

Blame the fact that I (finally) bought a TV (a whole 13 inches...go college savings!) and a DVD/VCR player (Target, I love you! $99.99!), and have been watching Mel Brooks movies (The Producers, Young Frankenstein, Spaceballs, etc) and old movie musicals (Guys and Dolls, The Music Man, A Chorus Line) all day. And for some reason, I watched "Star Wars: TPM" while I wrote this, eating (literally) month-old cheese puffs. Go figure. Ah, Sunday.

Disclaimer: Oh, I forgot this last chapter. Oops. Er, I don't own Mark and Roger. Hell, I don't own anything. Not even the weird guy at the end. Chelsea owns him. I think I own "homeless man," though.

This chapter is for Christina, my next-door neighbor, who can't understand why I get excited when I remind her to take her Prozac, or why I call it AZT.

And as always, to, with, and for Chelsea, who sent me this wonderful email:

"WRITE NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You have to write right now.  
No. I don't care what else you are doing.  
Write it now!  
Nownownownownownownownownownownownownownownow  
nownownownownownownownownownownownownownownow  
nownownownownownownownownownownownownownownownownow!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

For you, angel.

-------------------------------------

After a week, Mark was considerably less excited about his dream of being a starving artist. Starving sounded a lot more romantic when your stomach wasn't grumbling, he realized. The first three days were bliss; he would rise at the crack of dawn, film the sunrise over the skyline, go out in search of anything he had jotted down in his previous night's notes, grab something at a coffee shop, wander until late at night, then go back to his hotel room and scribble furiously at one of his many screenplays-in-progress. His filming was hampered by his lack of actors, studio, etcetera, but he didn't allow that to interfere with shooting what he could.

But a week into life in New York, the serious lack of nutrition and sleep was starting to catch up to him. He had spent most of his money on the bill for the hotel, leaving him about ten dollars a day for food and transportation. Unsurprisingly, he became very acquainted with walking.

He had steadfastly refused to consider long-term plans in setting out for the city, determined to live in the moment, survive by the skin of his teeth. He had decided to live on his movies (of which he had two or three completed); sell one, then live on the paycheck until the next one sold. He had failed to realize just how long it took to sell a movie, especially in New York. None of the producers he'd talked to had been interested in the footage they'd seen; in desperation, he had even attempted to sell the screenplays he had used as the basis of his movies, but that hadn't worked either.

Much as he hated the prospect, he knew it was past time to look for a job. WAY past time. He was down to thirty-two dollars and sixty-four cents, and how that was going to last until his first paycheck he had no idea. So he had shuffled into convenience stores, supermarkets, grocery stores, video rental stores, movie theaters (if only!), even in desperation fast-food chains. Unfortunately for Mark, the second question was always the same: "Place of residence", or "address". As hard as he tried to explain his situation, nobody wanted to hire a homeless college dropout with zero practical work experience.

Somehow, he had managed to avoid the hotel manager and stay in his room an extra day, but on his eighth day he was forced out onto the streets clutching his camera and his bag.

The door swung shut behind him with a resounding click, and he stood still for a moment, shivering despite his thick coat. The wind whipped past him, stirring candy bar wrappers and fliers on the street into a frenzy. For the first time, the city looked less inspiring to Mark than...intimidating. "Well, shit," he said to nobody in particular.

Quickly, he mentally ran over his list of possibilities. He could call his parents---veto. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. He could call his sister---veto. Even if she didn't tell their parents, which she might do simply out of concern for his well-being, he didn't want to admit that he needed help. Which he did, of course. He was alone in the city with no money and nowhere to go.

Then it struck him; he could call Benny! Lending money was definitely within the roommate, even ex-roommate, realm of possibility. He hurried over to a pay phone on the other side of the street, saying good-bye to another quarter. Silently he prayed (to whom, he wasn't sure) Benny would be home.

"Hello?"

Prayer answered. "Benny! It's me."

There was a short pause, then an incredulous, "Mark? You're still alive! Make it big yet?"

Mark winced, knowing how pathetic he was about to sound. "I, uh, not really. It's kind of...uh...I need to borrow some money."

"No problem. Go to the nearest Western Union, and I'll wire you a thousand dollars."

"Really?!"

Benny laughed. "No! What, do you think I'm rich? I'm a college student! Being broke comes with the territory, you know that."

"Fuck you," Mark grumbled. So much for the Benny idea.

"Hey, man, you know you could always call---"

"I'm not calling my mother, Benny," Mark growled. He knew that. He _knew_ that wasn't an option.

"I hate to remind you," Benny said with a tone that made it perfectly clear that he didn't hate it at all, "but I'm pretty sure I said something about finding a place to stay when you left. Didn't I tell you you were gonna starve? Huh?"

Mark pulled the phone away from his ear for a minute, stared at it, then placed it back in its holder. He couldn't think of one thing he wanted to say to the other man, and he wasn't in the mood to be lectured. _I can get enough of that at home, thanks very much. _

He wandered, filming, much in the same way he'd done the last week, but his heart wasn't in it. He grabbed something to eat only when his knees started to buckle from lack of food. He tried every cheap-looking hotel and youth hostel he could find, hoping to find somewhere to stay for the night, but everywhere he tried was full on account of the holiday season.

"Fucking Christmas," he grumbled as he trudged along, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge that it had always been his favorite holiday despite the fact he was Jewish. He had always loved the colored lights, the nutcrackers, loved peering in other families' windows at huge spruces and firs, decked out to within an inch of their lives. He loved the way you could almost hear sleighbells when it began to snow. _Like now_, he realized, pulling his coat tighter around himself. _Fucking snow. It's fucking freezing!_

Desperately, he took stock of his situation. Twenty-five and a half dollars in his pocket. Very little he could do with that. Spare clothing, toothbrush, and screenplays nobody wanted in a bag in his left hand. No help there. Crappy watch that barely kept time on his wrist. Definitely nothing. Camera that felt like it weighed at least fifty pounds in his left hand. He could pawn it, if he got really desperate, although the thought made him wince.

Freezing, nearly shaking with exhaustion, he sat down on a park bench a few minutes past two am. He tried to wiggle further into his coat, stopping periodically to brush the snow off of his head and shoulders. The earpieces of his glasses felt like they were colder than he had imagined metal could get, and the lenses were fogging up from the condensation in the air.

An hour later, he realized he was losing the battle against sleep. As terrified as he was to drift off in the open like this, exposed, vulnerable, and virtually blind, he knew there was very little else he could do. _This is what I wanted, isn't it? How fucking romantic. Cold, hungry, and homeless. Fuck this, I'm calling my mother in the morning. _

But even in his state, he didn't want to concede that this might be his last night in the city. Instead, he told himself, _Well, you never know, I'll see what happens tomorrow. Maybe that'll be the day...you never know..._

With optimism's last gasp echoing in his mind, he slipped into unconsciousness.

----------------------------------------

Poke. Poke. Ow. "Dammit, Cindy, leave me alone," Mark mumbled, wincing at the pain in his side. He came wide awake instantly, however, upon seeing that it wasn't the broom handle Cindy had been clutching in his dream poking him, but a nightstick. Not Cindy then, but a policeman. "Um, officer, can I help you?" He hoped he sounded less nervous than he was; he'd never had a run-in with a cop before.

"Yeah," the policeman answered. "You can get your bum ass off of public property. This ain't a shelter."

"Sorry," Mark muttered, wondering where the hell this guy was when his wallet was stolen last year. Under the cop's disapproving glare, Mark forced his frozen limbs into action. Grabbing his bag and bringing his camera out from inside his coat, where he had hid it while he slept, he stood up, legs complaining under the strain. As the policeman went on his way, Mark checked his watch, and saw that he had only slept three hours.

The city didn't look anymore inviting in the pre-dawn light than it had in the ambient glow of too many lights earlier. Mark resigned himself to waiting until a decent hour then calling his mother when a hand gripped his shoulder, startling him.

"Hey," a gruff voice said in his ear. Mark whirled around to see a homeless man clutching a sleeping bag. "I...uh..." he stammered, "I don't have any money."

The man frowned at him, but continued, "Kid, you got someplace to go? Someplace warm?"

Mark shook his head, hoping the man would leave him alone.

"Come with me, there's a tent city a couple streets over. There's usually a fire going." He led the way, leaving Mark stunned. Not only was this person not trying to mug him, as he had originally thought, but he was actually offering him a place to go, somewhere he could get out of the snow. Hurriedly, he followed.

_Just when you think you understand the city,_ he marveled to himself, _it turns around and does something like this. _He began to see the city again, squinting against the dim light. It had such flavor, so many levels of meaning. Every moment, a new sight appears, a new sound makes itself known, a new smell..._oh, that smelled good. _He had forgotten how hungry he was in favor of worrying about how cold he was, but the smell drifting past him currently...he looked up, trying to see the name of the place that made such good food.

Shit.

'The Life Cafe'.

Mark stopped dead in his tracks, causing his guide to turn around and stare at him. "What?"

Mark looked at him, then burst out laughing. "I am such a dumbass!" he yelled, then ran up to the man, shoved five of his last dollars into his hand, and sprinted off, finally knowing where he was, and where he was going.

_How...why didn't...what the hell's wrong with me? Didn't he say if I needed somewhere to crash, I could? And it's taken me this long to think of it? All right, I'm officially an idiot, _he thought as he scooted in Roger's building behind a lower-level resident, taking the stairs up to the loft two at a time.

Whereas he had no idea what he would have said to his mother, he knew exactly what to say to Roger: "I'm a dumbass and I need somewhere to stay." He was still laughing to himself about his own stupidity as he knocked on the door.

He shut up quickly, though, as the door opened a crack and a pair of unfamiliar, suspicious eyes peered out at him from inside. "What do you want?"

Suddenly unsure of himself, he stuttered, "I'm, uh, just ... I'm looking ... I'm here to see...does Roger Davis live here?" It had been a year and a half, after all, and who knows what could happen in a musician's life?

The eyes darted up and down, taking in Mark's extremely rumpled appearance. "Who wants to know?"

"Uh, my name is Mark. Mark Cohen. Is this...a bad time?"

"Yeah," the owner of the eyes muttered. "Yeah. Bad time. Go away."

And the door swung closed with a note of finality.

Thoroughly bewildered, completely crestfallen at his last hope being shattered, Mark turned to trudge back down the stairs and find a pay phone when he bumped into--

"Roger?"

Roger's eyes, which looked a little more tired than the last time Mark had seen them, lit up upon seeing Mark. Mark could see his brow furrow as he struggled to place Mark's face, and then his eyes widened. "Holy shit, Mark!" That huge grin Mark had remembered broke out on his face as Roger grabbed him in a huge hug, knocking the wind out of the smaller man.

Pulling back, Roger asked incredulously, "What the hell are you doing here? And..." he paused, sniffing the air, "where have you been staying? You need a shower, man."

Mark blushed. "I, uh, slept in the park last night."

Roger stared at him. "You're kidding. Please tell me you're kidding." Mark shook his head, unrepentantly. Truth be told, he retained a little perverse pride that he had survived. Roger, predictably, punched him in the arm. "I told you that you could stay here! What, you forget?"

Mark nodded, rubbing his arm. "I do that a lot." He shivered from the freezing air in the stairwell, and Roger noticed.

"Hey, let's talk inside."

Mark stopped as Roger put his key in the door. "Um, Roger? That guy who answered the door..."

"Oh," said Roger, shrugging, "that's just Stan. He's a little...never mind. He's moving out anyway," he added as he shouldered the door open, ushering a grateful Mark into the warmth of the loft.

Mark saw Roger's roommate catch sight of him then run into his room, causing Roger to shrug again. He grabbed Mark's bag and threw it down on the floor next to the table, then hopped up on it.

Mark felt a smile spread across his face, seeing how little the loft had changed. There were boxes stacked next to the door, and the old chair had collapsed in a corner, but other than that it was exactly as Mark had remembered it. He felt a rush of pleasure, knowing that this time he wouldn't have to go back to Scarsdale after witnessing a lifestyle like this.

That was what had nearly driven him crazy the last time; a brush with perfection, only to have it ripped away.

"It's so warm," Mark murmured, feeling frozen limbs thaw.

Roger grinned at him. "We've got an illegal wood-burning stove. Keeps it toasty."

Mark gave him a look. "I don't think you can pull off that word."

"What, toasty? I can totally pull that off," Roger protested.

Mark shook his head, denying Roger's claim. "Nah, you've got to be, like, forty and a mother."

Roger winked at him. "You never know..." He laughed as Mark rolled his eyes, then asked, "So, how'd you get here?"

"Walked," Mark quipped, but then went on, "I dropped out of Brown."

"Why?"

Mark shrugged, but couldn't help smiling. "You were right, it wasn't me. I had a falling-out with my parents, then got on a train and came here. I got kicked out of my hotel yesterday," he explained. "That's why I slept in the park."

Roger raised his eyebrows. "You mean you came to New York City without money, a place to stay, or a job lined up?"

Mark sighed, hearing the old arguments again, but nodded. He jumped when Roger let out an enormous laugh, yelling, "That's the dumbest fucking plan I've ever heard! That doesn't even deserve to be called a plan—it's just something dumb you did!"

Mark laughed too, a bit sheepishly. Roger motioned next to him on the table, and Mark hopped up beside him. "So," Roger continued, "you still want to live the boho life?'

Mark nodded fervently. "Absolutely! It's all I've ever wanted!"

Roger stopped smiling, fixing Mark with a serious glare. "And you just assumed you could live here for free?"

"Uh...I, um..."

Roger rolled his eyes. "You know you can. I told you that." The grin was back, full force.

Mark shoved Roger off the table, forcing a surprised "Oof!" from the other man. Roger jumped back up, tackling Mark, and they both landed on the ground, wrestling. Roger won, of course, and held Mark down, pinning his wrists. "You can stay on one condition," he panted, lowering his face so that it was mere inches from Mark's.

Mark gulped. "What?"

Roger leaned closer, then whispered, "Take a shower!" and rolled off Mark, laughing.

Mark sat up, rubbing his wrists. "Yeah, I get it, I stink. Where do I throw my stuff?"

Roger gave him a mock-bow, and opened the door to his own room. "You can share with me. There's two beds, don't worry," he added hastily, seeing Mark's eyebrows raise. "Stan shares the other one with Collins. You'll meet him Thursday, I think he's visiting his family until then."

"Okay," Mark agreed. He hadn't considered the fact that there would be other people living with them, but he guessed it wouldn't be much different from having a roommate in college.

As he grabbed his last pair of clean clothes and headed for the shower, he was baffled by everything that had happened in the last week. He had dropped out of college, moved to New York, become a starving, freezing artist, become homeless, become not-homeless, and was living with a man he had met once before in his life. As the hot water (which Roger had said he could only guarantee for about five minutes) cascaded down his back, he shivered, and not with the cold of the day or the heat of the water, but with completion.

----------------------------------------

:slaps slashy muses: Dammit, not yet! Go back to your cage!


	4. Learning to Cope

Oooooooookay then, here's the deal. I just found out that my cousin...is best friends...with FRENCHIE DAVIS...and that I...have been invited...to go to a Halloween party...tomorrow night...with the _CAST OF RENT_...and crash at FRENCHIE DAVIS's place...and was offered front-row seats to the show...and _MY FATHER WON'T LET ME GO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

HOLY FUCKING HELL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHY DOES MY LIFE HATE ME???????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Well, as this is now officially THE LOW POINT OF MY LIFE...:sigh:

He says that it's like, a five hour drive to NYC (which is correct) and that there would be no way for me to make it back to school in time for class the next day (which is also correct) and that these things matter (which is incorrect) and that he's paying the bills for college (which is most unfortunately correct).

And...:chokesobsighsobwail:...now to my lovely reviewers!

Flipper: Chelsea and I have come to the conclusion that we love you. A lot. You make our socks do a happy little dance. Look at them go! :stares at dancing socks:

To the-fraulein: :blushes: I'm a huge fan! :refuses to admit how many times she has read "Why does distance make us wise?" because that would be sad and weird:

Dedicated to the fact that Anthony Rapp (:swoon:), Adam Pascal (:sigh:), Idina Menzel (:cheer:), and Jesse L. Martin (:does dance:) have signed on for the film! And that Taye Diggs is sure to follow (if I were Idina, I'd make him, wouldn't you?)! If you don't believe me, here's the article: double-'u' double-'u' double-'u' dot 

Sorry for the weird formatting, ffnet doesn't like links.

And I'm sorry my Author's Notes are always so frigging long! I don't know why I do that! However, get used to it, because it's just something I do!

Do I really still have to tell you that I don't own Mark and Roger (sob) and that it's dedicated to Chelsea? I thought not. I DO own the Mark scarf I'm knitting myself, though! Yeah! That's right! What now, biatches? Wow, my life is sad.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dim light. Smoky air. Sweaty bodies. Beer on his tongue, eyes squinting to see through the throng in the club. The pulse of the band currently onstage echoed through his ribcage, unsettling the natural rhythm of his heart.

Already Mark had been jostled, spilled on, stepped on, overlooked, and laughed at by no less than a dozen women, and he had only been there for ten minutes. _I hate clubs. Why did I agree to come here?_

His question was answered as the band finished their set amid lukewarm applause from the not-quite-drunk-enough-to-appreciate-mediocre-music-yet crowd, and the Well Hungarians took their place onstage. Mark cheered along with the rest of the crowd as the Hungarians started their first song, one of Roger's new pieces. A bit harder than most of his stuff, but still great as far as Mark was concerned.

They had been living together for two months already, and Mark was on top of the world. He'd been applying to jobs, so far without luck, but there was an interview the next day he was pretty confident about. Roger's gigs, which were getting more and more frequent as time passed, brought in enough to pay the rent and (somewhat) furnish the kitchen, enough so that there was always at least a box of cereal and some fruit or something.

They were learning about each other, learning to live with each other without driving themselves crazy. Roger learned quickly that you don't touch the camera; Mark learned you don't touch the guitar. Roger learned that if he was going to smoke, it would be on the fire escape; Mark learned that waking Roger up before ten was likely suicide. Roger learned that more chicks dig nerdy guys than he originally would have thought; Mark learned that walking side-by-side with Roger on the street did less than nothing for his chances of getting a date.

They also learned other things: given time and ingredients, Mark could cook decently; Roger was immensely protective of his friends; they both harbored a secret love of opera. Secret, because if Roger's band ever found out they'd be disgusted, and if Mark's parents ever found out, they'd be overjoyed.

Mark marveled in the changes in himself that had occurred in the last couple months. He was learning that not everyone took every chance to shoot down someone's opinions, learning self-confidence, learning that some things in life were certain. Even if Roger didn't call, he would be home sooner or later, and it was nice to have someone he could count on.

One thing he never would have realized prior to living with him was that Roger was surprisingly insecure. He put on the tough-guy image, and kept it very well, but Mark could see through that as few others could. Roger had rescued him, saved him, but deep down, Mark thought that Roger was the one who needed saving. He never thought his songs were good enough, never thought his voice rang purely enough. Mark had been present at all of his gigs to date, making sure the equipment was in working order, having a few beers with the band after the show.

Which brought him to tonight, in yet another club, trying not to choke on the smoke or slip on the various spilled drinks. He chose to stay at the bar, not venturing out onto the dance floor. His eyes focused on Roger, clad in ripped jeans and an open shirt, eyes closed as he concentrated intently on his guitar solo. His hands danced over the Fender, coaxing impossibly high notes as the crowd went wild. Next to Mark, a girl fell over, toppled by drunken dancers.

Immediately, Mark vacated his stool to help the girl up, shouting, "Are you okay?"

The girl nodded, giggling. Mark wasn't much into gigglers, but she was very pretty. He motioned to the stool next to him, which she accepted. Mark signaled the bartender for two beers, hoping they wouldn't pick today to start carding him. That wouldn't be impressive at all.

The girl said loudly, to be heard over the music, "Thanks for the drink!"

"No problem," Mark called back. Seeing the glazed look in her eyes, it obviously wasn't the first drink someone had bought her that evening. "I'm Mark!"

"What?"

"Mark!"

The girl giggled again. "Oh, that's your name!"

Mark was starting if she was worth the trouble. "Uh, yeah."

The girl stared at him, suddenly no longer amused. She looked him up and down, taking in his entirely inappropriate attire (not many sweaters at the Pyramid Club), his glasses, and probably some other things that branded him an outsider. Puzzled, she asked, "What are you doing here?"

Mark wasn't quite sure if he should be offended at her assumptions or impressed that she had managed to observe anything in her obviously plastered state. "I'm with the band," he answered, hoping that would be the end of it.

Her eyes lit up. "Really?" she shouted. "Which one?"

Mark refrained from rolling his eyes, but only with great effort. "The Well Hungarians. They're playing right now."

"What?"

Fed up, Mark yelled loudly, "They're playing now!"

The girl's eyes widened at his volume, and she reeled back on her stool a little, nearly falling over again. A little less concerned now, he still reached an arm out to steady her as she looked up at the band. She motioned wildly to Roger. "He's hot!"

At that exact second, the band stopped playing. Roger caught Mark's glance, grinning as he heard what his friend's companion had to say. Mark glared at him good-naturedly. _Yeah, I know. You're not even over here and you're still stealing all the girls. Shut up and play your guitar._

Roger winked at him, then started another song, a little slower. The girl was staring at him again. "Do you know him?" she asked.

"Yeah," Mark replied. "He's my roommate."

"He's hot!" she said, obviously forgetting that she had already said that.

"Yeah," Mark answered unenthusiastically. He knew most of the girls at places like this would prefer Roger over him_—just because he's got that voice...and that body...and that smile...and those eyes...fuck, Roger, leave anything for the rest of us?_ What was he supposed to do? Hang out at libraries, or something? Was there some secret place where all the girls who liked nerdy guys gathered? If so, where was this hideout, and who had the directions?

He'd had a few dates since coming to the city, but nothing serious. There was Jessica of the nosering and the tattoos who carried a snake everywhere; she had asked him to the movies, and he had frankly been afraid to say no. There had been Danielle, who was perfect and gorgeous with the attitude to match but laughed every time he mentioned his films. There had been Keisha, but that hadn't lasted past the second date, when she showed up for their date with another man on her arm.

There were others, but the names and faces blended together. _Why do I always pick women who are too much for me?_

He was jolted out of his trance by the girl, who had laid her hand on his leg. "Wanna dance?" she shouted.

Mark blushed. "I'm a bad dancer!" he called back.

She laughed loudly and grabbed his hand, pulling him onto the floor despite his protestations. Mark danced awkwardly, letting the girl lead him. He heard a hiccup in the song Roger was singing, and hazarded a glance at the stage. Sure enough, Roger's eyes were fixed on him, and he was trying masterfully to repress his laughter. Mark narrowed his eyes and flipped him off, then went back to pretending he could dance.

After an eternity, the song ended. The girl looked up at him—odd, it was unusual for Mark to find someone so much shorter than he was—and smiled, obviously amused by his dancing. He shrugged apologetically at her, but she just laughed again. She leaned close to him and asked, "Do you want to get out of here?"

Mark stole another glance at the stage, trying to signal his friend's attention, but Roger was again engrossed in his music. He knew Roger wanted him there, but he was a big boy. He'd be fine. "Yeah, okay."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour later over a bowl of ice cream (no place like New York City to get ice cream at two am) Mark got to know the girl a little better. She was sobering up, which was nice, because he hated trying to actually talk to really drunk people. Now, Roger was funny when he was drunk; fun to be around, silly, and willing to do just about anything, Mark had discovered with some glee. He himself wasn't so much fun, tending to get very controlling ("PUT that DOWN!"), he was told. As a result, he generally tended not to drink as much as his friends, also from a certain inability to hold his liquor well.

The girl, who had informed him that her name was April, was studying to be a pediatrician. Her friends had taken her out that night to celebrate her eighteenth birthday, then dropped her off at the club as a joke, promising to pick her up in the morning anywhere she called from.

"It's a little much," she confessed to him over her mint chip. "You know, New York and all that. I mean," she continued, gesticulating wildly with her spoon (and sending ice cream flying), "it's HUGE! You know? Like, bigger than I thought. Before I came, I mean. Like, I knew it was big, and it's not bigger than I thought it was, like the size of the city, but the streets, you know? They're bigger than, like, San Francisco, and that makes the city bigger, you know?"

Mark was beginning to wonder how much of her behavior was due to the alcohol and how much was due to her inherent personality.

"And..." she continued, taking another bite of ice cream between sentences, "it'll, like, chew you up and spit you out! You know? Like, it's cold, so cold, but it's got this light, and you can feel that there's nobody here in the big streets!"

Mark raised his eyebrows, starting to realize why she always said, "you know?" Most people wouldn't know. He certainly didn't know. "Um, yeah," he responded, not quite knowing how he was supposed to react. As incoherent as she was, there was a sort of vibrancy about her, as if she lived each second to the maximum that it could be exploited. Everything about her was extreme.

He seized on the only bit of that thread he could, and asked, "You're from San Francisco?"

She shook her head vigorously. "No, but I do live in Nor Cal. A tiny town nobody's ever heard of, above Napa Valley. You know it?"

He shook his head. "I've never been to the West Coast."

"Oh." She sounded almost disappointed. "It's really great, you should come some time. It's cold, but it's not cold like New York is cold, you know? Like, in San Francisco it's cold, but not cold enough to freeze your soul." She laughed almost hysterically for a minute, then looked straight at him and said, "But seriously." She took another bite of ice cream and looked thoughtful. "It's funny, because there's more space there, like, between towns and cities and stuff, but all the cities are so..." she motioned squashing something with her hands, "you know?"

"Not really," said Mark.

She looked him for a minute, puzzled, then exclaimed, "Oh, of course! You've never been to the West Coast! Oh, you should come!"

She went on to list the many virtues of California, from the deserts ("If you see the sunrise at dawn, it's like, a miracle!") to the mountains ("I can't ski, I fall over too easily, but I love to sled! Do you sled?") to the oceans ("I surf, did you know that?") to the farmland ("I miss good produce. Am I just going to the wrong places, or are all the fruits and vegetables in New York crap?"), all in the same manic (and tipsy) fashion.

She was just getting started on the difference between Northern California and Southern California when he blurted out, "You're beautiful."

She stopped talking abruptly and looked at him. Blushing, he realized what he had just said, and how random it must have sounded. But she was smiling now, and he could feel her leg under the table brushing his. Slowly, he leaned across the table to kiss her. She responded immediately, parting her lips ever-so-slightly. He reached for her hand with his, and entwined their fingers as they kissed gently, but with passion.

Blushing a little herself, she asked when they parted, "You want to come back to my place for a cup of coffee? Or, uh, something else?"

Mark hesitated. He really liked her, but he wasn't that kind of a guy, and he wasn't sure if she was sober enough to know what she was doing. The look of disappointment on her face, though, as he took a breath, was enough to spur him to sputter, "Yeah, um, okay."

They took a cab, Mark picking up the fare. It was a long ride, but eventful for the couple making out in the backseat like high-schoolers. Giggling again, April led Mark up the many stairs to her apartment. Behind them, the door swung shut.

Mark kissed the back of her neck as she struggled with the key to her apartment, somehow missing the lock time and time again. Finally the key turned, the lock clicked open, and the door moved to reveal a dingy little apartment on the fifth floor of a building without an elevator in a neighborhood that seemed to exist to house the world's Mexican restaraunts and dollar stores. A/N: I just spent a week here. It exists.

Her mouth was cold from the ice cream, but her hands were warm as they slid under Mark's shirt. He buried one hand in her hair, kissing her gently, and his other arm encircled her waist, pulling her to him. He thought vaguely that he should call Roger, tell him that he probably wouldn't be home that night, but then one of April's hands took off his glasses, and the other traveled lower on his body, and all thoughts of the musician vanished from his mind.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Warm. Soft bed. Good feelings. Very warm. Slowly, Mark fought his way back to consciousness, finding himself in unfamiliar surroundings.

Last night came back to him, from the club to the ice cream place to the apartment, and...Mark smiled. He wouldn't be the first to admit it, but it had been a very long time for him. And it had been good. He looked next to him, searching for April, but the bed was empty.

Curious, he groped blindly for his underwear, wishing he had his glasses. Unfortunately, if he remembered correctly, they were somewhere by the front door.

Eventually he succeeded in finding all his clothing and his glasses (while picking up quite a few bruises along the way), but April still was nowhere to be found. Puzzled now, he checked the kitchen, and found a note stuck to the refrigerator with a strawberry magnet.

_Mark, _the note began,

_I'm really sorry about last night. I had way too much to drink and...oh, god, I can't believe I actually did that. You must think...never mind. I'm really sorry about this, but I'm not that kind of a girl. I really like you, but I don't think I can see you again. Please don't call me, or come see me. I'm just trying to figure everything out...I'm still a small-town girl deep down. I know I gave you the wrong impression, but all I can say is I'm sorry. There's a subway station two blocks away, on 116th and Lexington, or you can call a cab. _

She had written the number for a cab below the note, to make up for leaving him so abruptly.

_She didn't even sign her name,_ Mark realized. He wondered as he dialed if this was how all guys felt after a one-night-stand, or if it was normal to feel like he'd lost a friend.

When he got back to the loft, nearly an hour later, he saw Roger sitting on the table, glaring at him. Surprised, Mark glanced at his watch. Nine-fifteen. What on earth was Roger doing awake?

"Where the hell were you?" Roger asked angrily. "I was looking for you all night, man!"

"I, uh, went home with a girl from the club," Mark answered, confused. How many times had Roger done the same thing?

"What the hell, Mark?" Roger yelled, jumping off the table. Mark backed up until he was pressed against the wall, slightly frightened of his friend. "You just left! You didn't say anything! And then, you didn't call! I thought you were dead or something!"

Mark stared at Roger, bewildered. "You do the same thing all the time! You're never home after gigs anyway, so I thought I'd go with her." _Why is Roger so upset about this?_

"You know I need you at my gigs! You know I want you there, man. And you just left halfway through! And you didn't call! What, I don't matter anymore because some chick'll let you fuck her?"

"Roger," Mark said, "just because you get laid all the time doesn't mean the rest of us do. And why the fuck are you being so jealous?"

Roger glared at him. "I'm not jealous, I was fucking worried! I needed you there, and you just left!"

Suddenly, Mark heard an unspoken phrase: 'just like everybody else.' "Roger," he growled, exasperated, "I'm not going to be your security blanket. My life can't revolve around you any more than yours does around me. You probably didn't even notice I was gone until you needed me to tell you how great you were afterwards!"

He knew he had gone too far, saw it in Roger's eyes. _Fuck, he's scary when he's in a temper._ Roger slammed his hand into the wall behind Mark, and Mark felt it quiver with the force of the blow. Mark flinched, but held his ground. "Roger, get the hell away from me. You're being stupid."

Angrily, Roger stalked away, still fuming. "You know what, Mark? I don't need this shit! I always call, or leave a note, or something! And you know I'll be back! I _always_ come back!"

"Yeah, so you don't feel guilty for leaving me alone _again_!" Mark hadn't even known he'd felt that way until he said it.

Roger moved suddenly, grabbing the first thing that was within his reach and chucking it at the wall.

Unfortunately, the first thing within his reach was the phone. Even more unfortunately, Roger had left the window open that morning.

Roger and Mark stared at the telephone as it sailed serenely out the window, ripping the cord from the wall, over the fire escape. Several moments later, they heard a crash. Stunned by the randomness of the action, both men gravitated toward the window, climbing out onto the fire escape. Slowly, they peered over the edge, eyes taking in the unfamiliar sight of a smashed telephone lying in the middle of the road. Many people on the street were looking puzzled, some downright panicked, and one woman had caught sight of Mark and Roger.

Silently, the two climbed back into the loft, then sat down on the table. All of a sudden they looked at each other and burst into laughter.

"God," Roger gasped as he shook with the force of his humor, "we're such girls!"

"Don't leave me alone!" Mark mimicked, nearly falling over.

"You don't appreciate me!" Roger did fall over, off the table.

Tears rolling down their faces, much-needed relief swept through them. Eventually, they quieted, Mark lying on the table and Roger on the ground. They didn't know when, but at some point, everything had become okay. Sides aching and exhausted, they both fell into relaxed dreams.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Whoa! Believe me when I say that I have NO IDEA where the hell that came from! I had writer's block, and suddenly...I don't know, it just happened!

Kelby, I know you like Happy!Roger, but this chapter simply calls for Angry!Roger, so...sorry!

I can't believe I wrote something het! That's so not me! I didn't even know if I could! And is it totally obvious that I used to live in California, and now live in New York?

I'm trying desperately to figure out a way to incorporate that adorable scene from "La Boheme" where Rodolfo (Roger) and Marcello (Mark, obviously) dance...

Rodolfo:

(_gallantly, to Marcello_)

"Lovely maiden..."

Marcello:

(_in a high, girlish voice_)

"Please, sir, respect my modesty!"

They're so cute! Tell me, reviewers: is there any way I can make my not-slashy-yet Mark and Roger be as cute as the originals? Also, I just got the entire "La Boheme" soundtrack, so don't be surprised if I start stealing stuff unrepentantly.


	5. Of Telephones and Taxicabs

Oops, this was supposed to be out MUCH earlier, but I just got so excited about the film casting news (Rosario Dawson as Mimi, Tracie Thoms as Joanne, Wilson as Angel, Adam as Roger, Taye as Benny, Idina as Maureen, and the incomparable Anthony as Marky!!!)!!!!

I'm in an Anthony Rapp swing right now (well, right now _especially_), so this chappie is dedicated to him. Maybe I shouldn't have spent like, a hundred dollars at Borders buying "Dazed and Confused" (for Sweet!Anthony), "Road Trip" (for Creepy!Psycho!Anthony), "Adventures in Babysitting" (for Annoying!Redhaired!Anthony), "Six Degrees of Separation" (for Angry!Harvard!Anthony) and "A Beautiful Mind" (for Math!Geek!Anthony). Then...I'm really bad, but I bought "David Searching", "Man of the Century", "Grave Secrets", "School Ties", "Far From Home", and his "Look Around" online the DAY my debit card came in the mail! :p My dad's gonna kill me. (Whatever...he wouldn't let me go to RENT! This is the least he can put up with.)

Actually, I'm very happy with my dad right now. He bought me tickets to see "Little Shop of Horrors" with ANTHONY in San Francisco when I go home for Thanksgiving Break!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Also, dedicated to Anthony's comment on Broadwayworld, "What is fanfiction?" If he only knew what we do to him! Well, so far I've been pretty good to Marky, but it just can't keep going. You know it can't.

To GayApparel: I heart you! And yeah, I lived in Cali. L.A. when I was little, but then a tiny town in Northern (shudder) for 14 fcking years, until I came out to NY for college. (dances and sings "I'm free! I'm free!") (pities Chelsea, who is still stuck in NorCal)

PS: Your review jumpstarted this story again...I was getting annoyed with it, and with myself for waiting...so I waited some more...and it still didn't write itself...and Chelsea yelled at me...and I still couldn't write...so I just did it.

To mydracomalfoy: Um, yeah, this is going to be slash. I heart slash too! I'm sorry it's been ambiguous...I'm trying so hard not to rush it, I'm afraid I'm taking way too long! And yes, they are making a "RENT" movie! Go to broadwayworld dot com to check out Anthony (himself)'s posts on the subject!!!!!!!!!!

"Tiva: it's like, TV, only for girls!" ---Chelsea

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A chilling breeze swept into the apartment, ruffling Mark's hair and coaxing him out of his uneasy slumber. He sat up slowly and winced at the pain that comes from sleeping in an uncomfortable position on a hard surface. Like a table.

Frowning as much from the trace of a hangover he carried as from the complaint of his muscles, Mark looked around the apartment with narrowed eyes, trying to figure out what had awakened him.

His eyes landed on the open door, and the highly amused Collins standing in the doorway. "Okay," the older man said with a smile in his deep voice, "what'd I miss?"

Mark realized that the table wasn't the most normal of places to sleep, although it had felt like a good idea a few hours earlier, and saw Roger sprawled out on the floor next to the table, snoring contentedly. _What a pair we make,_ he thought wryly. He shrugged in response to Collins, then hopped off the table to grab a bowl of cereal. On his way, he kicked Roger awake.

"Smarfnak," Roger replied. Mark rolled his eyes, and knelt next to his friend. Grabbing the other man's shoulder, he shook Roger roughly. "Roger, it's like, three o'clock in the afternoon and you're lying on the kitchen floor, so you need to wake the hell up. Plus, you're in my way."

Roger's arm very nearly collided with Mark's face as he swung wildly (but thankfully, blindly), trying to swat whatever insect was annoying him. Mark stood up and nudged him with his foot again. "Roger!"

"S'your fault I'm fucking tired," Roger groaned, turning onto his stomach.

"Uh, lovebirds?" came the voice from the doorway. Mark looked up to see Collins still in the same spot. "Are you two responsible for this?" In his outstretched hand, he clutched the sad remains of what was once a telephone.

Two heads turned to Collins, and then to each other. When their eyes met, their mouths twitched, but they turned innocently to Collins. "Uh," said Mark, "whatever gave you that idea?"

Collins merely raised his eyebrows at the two, who just shrugged sheepishly. He sighed. "You girls had a fight again, didn't you?"

Mark was startled as Roger laughed, "Yeah." He hadn't thought they fought that much. Apparently, it wasn't as seldom as he had thought. But come to think of it...he wouldn't call them 'fights', per se, but there were arguments. He didn't remember them too much because more often than not, he wasn't fighting. Roger would come into a room and rant about some little thing Mark had done; moved his guitar, or borrowed a shirt, or something. Mark would stand there confused, then apologize, and Roger would laugh it off. Then they'd go to lunch, or to one of Roger's gigs, or to the park, and forget all about it. It never used to happen in the old days (_old? I moved in two months ago!_), but Mark guessed it had to do with getting used to sharing an apartment, sharing a room, sharing a life. Most often it was something about Mark invading his privacy.If it had been anyone but Roger, Mark would have thought that he had something to hide.

Collins was grinning as he dropped himself on the sad excuse for a couch Roger had found the other day stuffed into an alleyway. "Who threw the phone?"

Mark glared at his friend. "You have to ask?" He picked himself off the floor, and made his way to the cupboard to pull out a box of cereal. "You want some, Rog?"

Roger shook his head. "Nah." Groaning loudly and dramatically, he pushed slowly off the floor and headed over to "his" couch, flopping down next to Collins. "Any chance of fixing the phone?"

Collins only laughed, and dumped the mangled phone bits into Roger's lap. "I think not. But hold on..." Rising, he walked quickly into his own room, emerging again a moment later with another phone, certainly newer-looking. And if Mark wasn't mistaken, it was cordless as well. Mark stared at him in disbelief. "Where the hell did that come from?"

Collins gave him a mysterious smile, and replied cheerily, "It wanted to be free. I helped it escape."

"Anarchists are awesome!" Roger proclaimed, tearing the box open like a kid on Christmas.

Mark dug a somewhat debatable-looking spoon out of the drawer and plunked it into his cereal, munching absently. "So, Collins, where were you all of last night and all of this morning, eh? Out with Derek again?"

"Nah, that was Monday. This was Alex." He paused. "And Kevin, come to think of it."

Mark laughed. "Slut."

The other man grinned. "Hey, college is the perfect time to experiment, right?"

Mark rolled his eyes, and said, "Collins, you're not in college anymore."

"I didn't mean for me, Mark." Wink.

Mark leaned back on the counter, shaking his head. "You know, all this seducing of unsuspecting students is going to catch up with you and bite you in the ass some day." At the gleam in Collins' eyes, he hurriedly added, "And not in the good way, either!"

"You know," Roger interrupted, head bent low to the scattered parts of their new telephone, "these things should come with instructions."

"They do," Collins pointed out, waving the pamphlet in front of Roger's face.

Roger frowned at him. "Well, the instructions should come with pictures!"

Grinning again (A/N: He just got laid! He's allowed to grin too much!), Collins deftly removed the phone from Roger's inept hands, assembled it in a matter of moments, and plugged it into the giant electrical cord running out the window.

Mark stared at it for a moment. "How do we know if it's working?"

At that moment, the phone rang. Mark brightened. "Providence!" He plucked the phone from its base and scrutinized it for a moment before pushing the "Talk" button. "Hello?"

"Mark! It's Mom!"

Mark dropped the phone, and quickly picked it up again, somewhat panicky.

"I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere! You never call, you never write, you could be dead for all you told me! After all, what am I? Only the mother. I gave birth to you, I raised you, and what do I get? Do I get a phone call? I get nothing! If I hadn't been looking in Cindy's address book to find Mrs. Gershman's number, who knows how long it might have..."

Mark, who had been holding the shrieking receiver several inches from his ear, stared at the phone in horror. It was plain from the expression on Roger and Collins' faces that they, too, could hear every word Mrs. Cohen said.

Finally, Mark heard a strange beeping from the phone. Saved! "Uh, Mom, we just got a new phone and the batteries aren't charged yet. I have to go. I'll..."

"You'll call, Mark. That's all. You're going to call me. Promise, Ma—"

Fortunately, the phone died. Mark carefully replaced it in its cradle, and walked over to the couch and sat down. "We have to start screening our calls."

Roger laughed. "Uh, how? We don't have an answering machine. Fuck, we barely have a phone!"

The phone rang.

"Don't answer that!" Mark said firmly as Roger reached to answer the phone. Standing up, he hauled his friend up by his arm. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

Ring!

Mark looked around for his shoes, then realized he hadn't taken them off before going to sleep. "To buy an answering machine."

Collins quirked an eyebrow at him. "Legally?"

Ring!

"Yes, legally. Some of us don't have the luxury of being immune to policemen."

Collins sighed. "You'll learn, Mark. You'll learn. But if you're going to go through with the perpetuating of the corporate chains the government subjects our appliances to, go to this place."

Ring!

He grabbed an old sheet of music with lyrics scrawled on one side and scribbled an address on the other. "It's in Chinatown. Tell him I sent you."

Ring!

Mark laughed as he pocketed the scrap of paper, and dragged Roger toward the door, still resolutely ignoring the phone.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I can't believe you've never been to Chinatown! Are you serious?"

Mark sighed. "Yes, for the tenth time. You know I've only lived here two months. Why would I?" He looked around Canal Street, rather fascinated against his will at the money-grubbing half-shops selling cheap knock-offs to unsuspecting tourists who were convinced they were getting designer accessories for a tithe of what they would pay in a store. "How do you think Collins knew that guy, anyway?"

Roger laughed. "Man, I'm not sure I want to know." They had entered a dimly-lit flat over a Starbucks (nice to know that some things were universal, anyway) to find a tiny man with the air of a used-car salesman smiling an oily smile. He proceeded to show them his not-inconsiderable collection of overpriced machines, then blanched as soon as Roger mentioned a certain appliance-liberating anarchist. He had thrust a machine hurriedly into Roger's hands, instructing him to tell his friend that it was sold at exactly what the man himself had paid for it and not a penny more. Mark gave him two dollars (as instructed), and the two had left, barely containing their laughter.

"What kind of store sellls only answering machines, anyway? I mean, how much business can he possibly do?"

"I don't know. Hey, do you want to grab something to eat before--"

Mark stopped abruptly, both verbally and physically. Roger had stopped dead in his tracks, staring fixedly at something on the street ahead of him. Mark looked, but couldn't see what his friend was looking at. All he saw was a mass of people milling around. "Roger?" he asked tentatively.

Roger's face was white, and in a mask of shock. Slowly, he walked forward. If Mark wasn't mistaken, he was staring at a shabby-looking middle-aged man with a bad haircut and a faded sports coat. The man didn't look up as Roger approached, but raised his head as Roger asked uncertainly, "Dad?"

Mark thought he saw a flicker of recognition in the man's eyes, but the man just shook his head and turned away. Roger persisted, grabbing the man's arm. "Lloyd Davis!"

The man shook him off, wrenching his arm free. He walked away quickly, but Roger followed. "Lloyd Davis, you were married to Alicia Davis for eight years! You're my father!"

He was drawing a crowd now, as Mark followed at what he considered a safe distance from the drama. He wished he could help his friend, but how? By interfering in an obviously personal conflict?

"Fucking answer me!" Roger yelled. The man threw up his hand, signalling for a taxi. "You left us! Why the fuck did you leave? We needed you! You..."

A cab pulled up, and the man quickly opened the door and got into the backseat. As the taxi pulled away, Roger shouted, "Fuck you, man! Fuck you!"

He stood perfectly still, breathing hard, watching the car fade into the mass of city life as Mark cautiously approached. "Roger?" he asked uncertainly. Roger didn't acknowledge his presence, merely stared at the street. Mark said softly, "Let's go home."

Roger still didn't look at his friend, but nodded slowly. With what looked like tremendous effort, he turned away from the traffic and followed Mark to the subway.

He didn't say a word on the ride home, or the climb up the stairs. Mark tried frequently to engage him in conversation, ranging from "Do you want to talk about it?" to "Hey, it's cold." Nothing worked.

As they entered the loft, Roger headed straight for their room, slamming the door behind him. Mark stood in the doorway for a moment, then decided that he could do more harm than good by staying in the loft. Grabbing his camera, he turned around and descended once more into the East Village.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Okay, it's been three hours. I'm freezing, and I want to go home by the fire. Ready or not, Roger, here I come..._

Mark ascended the stairs, his thighs burning by the last story. The door swung open with some protest, creaking on its hinges to reveal utter darkness. The loft appeared to be empty. Flicking on the light, Mark glanced over at the table, where a note lay.

_Mark:_

_Off to seduce more unsuspecting college boys._

_--Collins_

Mark smirked to himself, then jumped as he heard a noise from the bathroom. Now that his eyes had adjusted, he could see a thin line of light under the door. "Roger?" he called uncertainly. There was something unsettling in the air, something...not quite right. He walked slowly to the bathroom door, disturbed by the noises he could hear from inside. He raised a hand and pushed gently on the door.

Behind the door was Roger, kneeling over the toilet, pale and sweating. He was coughing violently, gripping the sides of the porcelain bowl for support.

"God, Roger, are you okay?" Mark asked, alarmed at the state of his friend. He moved forward and knelt beside him, but Roger hardly seemed to notice his presence. He laid a hand on Roger's back, and the musician jumped, gasping.

"What..." he choked out, then bent over the toilet again to throw up.

Mark was starting to get frightened. "Roger, what the hell is going on? What happened? Are you sick? Did..." he trailed off as his eyes swept the bathroom and landed on the floor next to him.

Empty plastic baggie.

Empty needle.

Lighter.

Burnt spoon.

Slowly, Mark stood up, putting distance between himself and the man he suddenly felt he didn't know at all. "Roger..." Mark's voice shook as he took in the damning evidence all around him. The man next to him trembled violently, seemingly incapable of speech. "Roger, what the hell did you do?" He backed away from Roger, disgusted. There were a million other things he could have said, things he wanted to say, but none of them would make the situation less real.

"I..." Roger gasped, struggling with his nausea, "I think...I got...a bad hit." He doubled over, clutching his stomach, sweating profusely. His blond hair was matted to his forehead, and his skin looked clammy.

This wasn't the Roger Mark knew. The Roger he knew was a rock star, a strong man with the attention span of a five year old. The Roger he knew had dragged him outside in negative weather to play in the snow, had rescued him when he had nowhere else to go. The Roger he knew would never do something as stupid as fuck up his life with drugs. The Roger he knew wouldn't be bent over a toilet in the middle of the night, shaking and pale. He couldn't be so stupid. "No shit, Roger," he whispered, wondering how on earth his life in Scarsdale was supposed to have prepared him for something like this.

Unable to get a grip on the situation, Mark knew that if he didn't leave the room immediately, he would do something he would regret. Feeling angry, frusterated, shocked, and betrayed, he shoved the door open so hard it banged the wall. Trembling nearly as badly as Roger, he paced the living room furiously. What the hell was he supposed to do? Call an ambulance? Yeah, Roger would be sure to thank him when the paramedics took one look at his arms and called the police. _Would serve him right,_ Mark thought bitterly, but he didn't believe it. He didn't want Roger in a jail cell anymore than he wanted him to jump off the fire escape.

He could call someone...who? 9-1-1 was out, obviously. Collins? God-only-knows-where. Roger's mother? That would hardly go over better than the police. Furiously, he kicked the couch. _Who knows, kicking and punching shit helps Roger...fuck, what am I going to do?_ Staring at the empty apartment, he realized the answers weren't in the living room. Somewhat resigned, now feeling more helpless and terrified than angry, he reentered the bathroom, slowly kneeling next to Roger. "Why?"

Roger shrugged, wincing a little at the movement. "Needed it." His voice was barely a whisper, hardly above a breath. It was raw with the coughing and hacking and vomiting that had occupied the last hour, raw and low. He sagged back onto the tile, back braced against the edge of the bathtub.

Mark stared at him, incredulous. "You needed it? You've never needed it before...or have you?" he ended quietly. Suddenly needing to see for himself, he reached out his hand and grasped Roger's arm, pulling it to him. Roger attempted to wrestle free, but was too weak even to push Mark away. Swallowing, Mark pushed up the long sleeve, afraid of what was beneath it.

Sure enough, his suspicions were confirmed. Although the arm didn't resemble anything he'd seen in school as a scare tactic to keep kids off drugs, there were definitely visible tracks. And they weren't all new, either.

"How long?"

"A couple months before you moved in. Not all the time, just sometimes..."

"When you need it." Mark turned away. "Right? That's what you were going to say, wasn't it? God, how could you be such an idiot? How could you possibly think that doing...doing _smack_ was going to make anything better?"

Roger stared up at him, eyes deadened but angry. "Fuck you. You have no idea the kind of shit I live with, the kind of shit I've always lived with."

"Why didn't you tell me, or tell Collins, or anyone? Why do you always have to be such a Goddammed fucking martyr all the fucking time? Why do you always--"

"Why do I always fuck everything up? Is that what you were going to say? I fucking know, okay? I don't need you to tell me. I warned you, Mark."

Mark opened his mouth to protest, but Roger cut him off. "No, I fucking warned you. The day we met. I _told_ you I was a fuck-up. If you didn't believe me, that's your problem, but I told you."

Mark stared at him in disbelief. "Roger, you're going to ruin your life! Don't you care?"

"It's my life to ruin, okay? It's none of your business what I do with it. Not yours, not anyone's. I—" He broke off, coughing again. When the spasms subsided, he looked up at Mark, considerably less angry and much more defeated. "Mark?"

"Yeah?"

Roger said quietly, "I want to go to sleep."

Mark knew that this was as close to asking for help as Roger was going to get. Trying to suppress his disgust at the various shit Roger was covered in, he wrapped an arm around his friend, helping him to his feet. Step by step, he led Roger to their room, laying him down on the bed. Roger turned over, obviously halfway asleep already. Unable to be in the same room with his friend at that moment, Mark turned around after grabbing a blanket and headed for the couch.

Mark shut the door of the room behind him and leaned back, trying to will the image of Roger's haunted eyes out of his mind. This was Roger; vibrant, sexy, youthful, funny, capable Roger. _If someone like him can end up like that,_ Mark wondered, _what the hell kind of hope does that leave for me?_

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- _

Author's note: All credit for the scene with Roger's father goes entirely to Chelsea. It's her baby.

Review, please! It's the only way I know people want more!

Mini mock-poll: Can anyone guess what my favorite curse word is? Rolls eyes at obvious sarcasm (And I believe I've used the word "fuck" 21 times in this chapter alone! Woo hoo!)


	6. Into the Abyss

All I own is an old pomegranate. Really. Lord, I hope that since it's no longer the end of the millennium I'm not what I own!!!

Chris, I blame you completely for the lateness of this chapter! You know it's your fault...;)

And this wouldn't happen without Chelsea. Nothing would happen without Chelsea. She's everything. For you, love.

To Fruit-box: I love you. Purely and simply. :sarcasm warning: Yeah, you totally over-reviewed. I hate it when people review my story. :end sarcasm: :giggles, because that's what she does when she's happy: Reviews make me happyful! I write more when I'm happyful! :stares at everyone else reading the story: That goes for all of you; you have the potential to make the chapters come faster!

And the story itself thanks you. Not many people call it God. :pets story: (and yes, I know slash is my friend. Heh.)

As a matter of interest, I was listening to "Look Around" when I wrote the last chapter, and "Civilian" when I wrote this one. I have no idea if that affected anything at all, but it should be mentioned. Maybe. Maybe not. (:quietly worships US Postal Service for prompt deliveries:)

I'd very much like to recommend the film "Man of the Century" to all of you...and not just because it has Anthony Rapp (in a very nice role)! If you're looking for a cute, funny indie film, definitely check it out. Gibson Frazier is awesome as a guy living in NYC in 1999 who thinks it's the 20s. Just...check it out.

"Don't say boinked. It makes it sound like he has a small penis." ---Chelsea

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mark tiptoed around the apartment until well past noon the next morning, not wanting to wake Roger. Truth be told, he wasn't quite sure he was ready to face his friend just yet.

While Roger had been passed out cold from the moment he had hit the bed, Mark had tossed and turned, not getting any sleep. He longed to talk to someone, like Collins, but of course Collins hadn't come home. Not that Mark had expected him to, of course. There was no one else Mark would have felt comfortable talking to, or would have felt comfortable sharing what he knew about Roger with.

By about four am, Mark had given up any hope of sleep. He didn't dare leave, just in case Roger woke up and needed him. He constantly eased the door of their bedroom open just to make sure Roger's chest was still rising and falling, just to make sure he hadn't made a deadly mistake by not calling an ambulance. What if the stuff Roger had taken was worse than he had thought? What if he hadn't come home last night until much later, and Roger had done something stupid? If he hadn't left in the first place, would Roger have shot up at all? What if he had overdosed, and Mark had returned to a dead Roger instead of a sick one?

A million questions raced through his mind, a million scenarios that were closer to possible than he wanted to believe. If Roger continued on this path...who ever heard of a junkie that lived to old age? Were there any grandfathers still shooting up? Of course not. They all ended up dead in a ditch, as his mother liked to say. Unbidden, the image of Roger, eyes sunken, hair matted, shuddering in an alleyway with filthy clothes and a needle in his arm rose into Mark's mind. He stood up immediately, trying to distract himself. He couldn't turn on the T.V.--it might wake Roger. He grabbed the book he'd been trying to read for the last three months, but it was no use. He couldn't concentrate on the words on the page to save his life.

So he paced. He paced, both wondering what the hell he was going to do, and trying not to think about it. Every half hour or so he would check on Roger and contemplate waking him up to shake him until he explained himself better, and every half hour he would decide against it. He took a brief turn telling himself that it wasn't any of his business, that it wasn't a big deal (lots of people experimented, right?), but his efforts failed dismally. No matter what an idiot Roger could be, he was also smart, and funny, and caring, and full of life. He was Mark's best friend. W_ho am I kidding? He's my only friend. Without him...who the hell would even know I exist? Who would care?_

It was nearly three in the afternoon when Roger stumbled out of his room, looking like hell itself. Hand over his eyes, he groped blindly at the wall, stumbled over to the couch, and collapsed onto his back. "Mark," he groaned, "I feel like I've got the world's worst fucking hangover. And..." he frowned in confusion, feeling the blanket underneath him, "did you sleep out here last night?"

Mark stood perfectly still, his back to Roger, teeth clenched tightly. He wouldn't scream at him, he had no right. He swallowed, trying valiantly to get a grip on his anger. "Yeah, I did."

"Why?"

_Why indeed. That's really something I should be asking you, isn't it, Roger? _But he wasn't going to handle this stupidly. He walked over to the couch, and sat down next to his friend, pushing Roger's legs out of the way. "Roger?" he asked.

Roger was staring at him, somewhat puzzled, more than somewhat pained from his headache. "What?"

"Do, uh, do you need help?" Mark stuttered uncertainly. What was he supposed to say? He knew from lectures at school and stuff that he was supposed to be strong, but not pushy, that Roger had to come to the decision to change on his own. At least, that's what he thought they said.

Roger just gave him a strange look and said, "Yeah, you can get me a glass of water."

"You know what I mean."

He saw a warning in his friend's eyes. They said, _Drop it, Mark._ _I don't want to talk about this. _

There was nothing he could say, he realized. What hadn't he said last night? Was there anything Roger didn't know? Was there anything Mark didn't know? Was there any reason to drag this out at all? Of course not. It was Roger's life, to do with as he pleased.

Mark didn't believe that for a second. "Roger, what the hell is your problem? I come home last night to find you all...all fucked up, you could have _died_, you've been hiding this shit from me, now you want to just let it go?"

"It's none of your fucking business!" Roger snapped.

"It is my business! I live with you! I care about you!"

Roger glared at him. "If you really cared, you'd let me do what I want, be who I am. God, you're just like your mother!" He imitated Mrs. Cohen's high-pitched voice. "I only want what's best for you!"

Mark shoved Roger's legs off the couch as he stood up. He faced his friend, staring down at him. "Roger, you're killing yourself! This shit is going to kill you! If I didn't care about that, what the fuck kind of friend would I be?"

Roger got up himself, not wanting to be at a disadvantage. "I don't know, one who minded his own fucking business?"

"And watched you kill yourself? You're a drug addict, Roger!"

"Fuck you, I can stop anytime."

Mark crossed his arms. "Then stop."

Roger shot him another glare. "I don't want to."

"Why not?"

Roger spun around, kicking the couch fiercely, unknowingly echoing Mark's actions from the previous night. "It makes me feel good! Is that such a terrible thing? Is it so bad to want to feel good for once in my fucking life?"

"Roger," Mark tried again, laying his hand on his friend's shoulder, but Roger shook him off. "Roger, what about the other things that make you feel good? What about your band? What about getting laid, or something? What about just hanging out with your friends? Isn't that good enough?"

Roger laughed bitterly. "Mark, you have no idea what this feels like if you can say that."

"No, I don't have an idea. Because I'm not fucking up my life with drugs! God, you can be such a moron!"

Roger turned on him. "What did you say?" His eyes were dangerous, and Mark backed up involuntarily. "I'm not a fucking moron, Mark. I'm not an idiot. I know exactly what I'm doing. Just because I didn't go to some preppy college doesn't make me stupid!"

"Roger," Mark asked desperately, "won't you look into rehab? Please? I'll help you through this, I swear."

Roger snorted. "I told you, I'm not stopping. I don't need to. I don't have to. You're not my fucking mother, Mark. And even if I did stop--which I'm not going to—I wouldn't go to one of those rehab places. They treat you like shit."

"How do you know?"

"Drop it." Roger's eyes were hard, but evasive. Fine. He wouldn't push this one.

"Roger, I'm just worried about you." Mark tried with all his might to make his friend listen, to make him care.

But Roger had shut down. He merely shrugged, then said, "I'm late for practice with the band. See ya."

With that, he shoved on his shoes and walked out the door.

Without his guitar.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's Note: I know it was short! Don't worry, more soon! And by soon, I mean tonight! (or actually tomorrow, as it's 11:55...not that I should be doing the 6-8 page paper on Creation versus Recognition in the Media due tomorrow, or anything...)


	7. Joining the Dance

What? SURELY it can't be another chapter so soon...oh, but it is, my friends!

Love to Chris, who gave me WAY too many dirty mental images involving Anthony...

And to Chelsea, who (as always) deserves more credit than I can give her.

Dedicated to my stupid fangirlish post at brodwayworld dot com.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Life continued in the loft, but the dynamics within were completely changed. Mark was surprised that in most ways, Roger behaved as if nothing at all had changed. He still went to practice, still went home with random girls, still spent long hours on the table with his guitar, scribbling song lyrics furiously. He still smiled at Mark, still stole his glasses mischievously. Mark never saw him high, never saw him crash. He never saw needles, powders, anything.

But everything was different.

The ease of their friendship was gone, replaced by an unspoken strain. Where they used to sit and talk, or laugh, now one or the other of them would have to be doing something. Mark would be fiddling with his camera, Roger would be tuning his guitar, one of them would be watching black-and-white TV on pirated cable, or reading, or a hundred other little things. Something that wasn't enough to consume their attention, but enough to give them a constant reason to look away, to avoid each others' eyes.

Collins had noticed, of course. He didn't know the reason for the tension, but he picked up on it easily enough. He had cornered Mark once when Roger was away.

"What's wrong with you two?" he had asked, concerned.

Mark had avoided his eyes, had shuffled his feet nervously. In many ways, he still felt as if Collins was more Roger's friend than his. "Uh, nothing. It's nothing."

"Come on, anyone can see something's wrong. What did he do this time?"

"I said it's nothing!" He wanted to tell Collins, really wanted to. He didn't know why he didn't just blurt it out..._Roger's on drugs! He's an addict! When he disappears with his band those nights, he's out getting high, doing heroin! You're living with a junkie!_

But he hadn't said any of those things. He didn't know if it was from a desire to protect Roger or if it was from some stupid craving to solve everything on his own, but he had merely smiled unconvincingly. Collins didn't believe him at all, and Mark had felt guilty. On many levels, Collins had the right to know. Stupid shit happened around drug addicts, Mark knew. Tempers ran high, deals went bad, people got hurt. But this was Roger. Roger would never hurt anyone.

Roger would be careful.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It never got truly pitch black in the loft, Mark noticed late one night in May. Light streamed in through the window from either the moon, or streetlamps, or a hundred other light sources, and it always seemed to be at the perfect angle to bother him as he slept. After working late on his latest film, he had fallen asleep on the couch. That wasn't so uncommon an occurrence; Mark would overwork and pass out in the living room, Roger would come home late and carry him to bed, and tease him mercilessly about it in the morning.

This night, though, Roger brought company home. Mark frowned to himself in the dark as he heard distinctly feminine giggling from the hallway as Roger fumbled with the key. Roger could screw whoever he wanted, sure, but there was an unspoken rule that with the two of them sharing a room, they would generally go home with the girl. That way there was no awkwardness, and no one was put out.

Roger took what seemed like an eternity to finally shoulder the door open and stumble through. He and the girl were both laughing, but trying to keep it quiet (rather unsuccessfully). Mark decided he didn't care to be a part of this, and feigned sleep with his eyes narrowed to slits.

"Shh!" he heard Roger hiss to his 'friend'. This must be the girl Roger had been talking about for a few days, Mark remembered. He'd said she was really pretty, really smart, blah blah blah. They'd been dating for something like a week, which he supposed bitterly must mean something in Roger's world. Roger walked noisily over to the couch and peered down at Mark. He turned back to the girl. "I think he's alseep!" For some reason, they both found this incredibly funny. With a sinking in the pit of his stomach, Mark realized from the tone of Roger's voice that he was at least drunk, likely high.

Roger stood up unsteadily, grabbing the girl's hand. "This is great!"

"Why?"

Roger opened the door to his and Mark's room. "We've got the room to ourselves!"

As soon as the door shut, Mark pulled a pillow over his head and turned over.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Mark awoke to the completely unfamiliar smell of someone else cooking. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. As soon as his vision cleared, he looked into the kitchen to see a very pretty man without a shirt weilding a spatula. The man (more like boy, really) glanced over at the movement and smiled upon seeing Mark awake. "Morning, sleepyhead!" he chimed brightly. "How d'you take your pancakes?"

Mark stared at him for a moment, then merely shrugged and answered, "Blueberry with peanut butter, if we have it." Mark decided this person could be one of two people: either the man was a very hospitable robber, in which case he'd probably felt sorry for their lack of belongings and took it upon himself to ease their suffering, or the more likely scenario; that he was some new beau of Collins's.

"Right-o, on the double!" Cheerfulness this early, Mark thought, should be illegal in every state but Alaska. They need as much cheer as they can get.

"Uh, I'm just gonna..." he trailed off, getting up and heading for the bathroom.

"They'll be ready when you get out!" the man called, causing Mark to turn around. As he reached for the handle of the door, he collided with someone unexpectedly.

"Oh, sorry!" He turned to see a girl with wet hair clad only in a towel emerging from the bathroom. This was just the day of random people living in his house, he guessed. But there was something about this girl that he--"Oh, my God! April? What are you doing here?"

Her hair was much shorter, cropped into curls around her head. She had dyed it bright red as well. Combined with the drawn look on her face, the difference in her hair made her nearly unrecognizable as the girl he had gone home with nearly three months earlier.

She stared at him, puzzled. "Do I know you?"

"Don't you remember?" His heart sank a little; he had hoped he was somewhat less than instantly forgettable, but...

She frowned, deep in concentration. Finally her eyes lit up, and she asked, "Mark? Is that your name?"

"Hey, you two know each other?" Mark spun around at the sound of Roger's voice from behind him. _Shit! How am I supposed to explain this? And she hardly remembers...maybe I should just deny the whole thing ever happened._

April, however, had other ideas. She quirked her head to the side, and asked casually, "Didn't we fuck?"

Roger laughed. "Yeah, baby, don't you remember?"

April shook her head. "No, not you."

Roger's jaw dropped. "What?" He turned to Mark, who could feel his face burning painfully. "Uh," he stuttered, "I'm not...that is, I don't...well, I mean, I _do_, but...I don't remember?" he finished meekly, shrinking away from Roger.

But April was smiling now. "Oh, yeah, we totally did! Wow, I can't believe I forgot about that. I must've been really fucked up that night. You were really good!"

Mark wondered briefly if he should try to appreciate the compliment, or continue trying to sink into the floor.

Roger made an odd kind of squawking noise in his throat, and April giggled. "Aw, baby, don't be jealous." She reached over and took his head in her hands, placing a firm kiss on his lips. Or rather, his top lip, as his bottom was still hanging open with the rest of his jaw. "This was before I knew you."

They heard a snicker from the kitchen, and turned to see the young man with the spatula dramatically proclaim, "As the Loft turns! The Young and the Slutty!"

Roger's eyes went wide. Obviously, he hadn't realized there was someone else in the apartment. He turned to Mark and whispered, "Who the hell is that?"

Mark shrugged. They both turned to look as they heard a voice say, "Young and slutty? Talking about anyone I know?"

Collins had emerged from his room in the middle of the declaration. Grinning broadly, he headed for the kitchen, sliding his arms around the young man from behind. "Morning."

On cue, Roger, Mark, and April averted their eyes as Collins started kissing his neck. They heard a giggle and a slap, followed by an "Ow!"

"It's your own fault. Keep your hands to yourself, I'm making pancakes. Mark, they're ready!"

Roger turned to him. "Collins, are you just going to let your date prance around half-naked without introducing us?"

Collins snickered. "I could say the same for you, but Mark at least seems to know her pretty well..."

Roger glared at him. "Fuck off."

April laughed. "Watch your fucking language. There's a lady present, after all!"

"Thank you, dear," Collins' date sighed. "Men. What can you do?"

"I meant me!"

Mark shuffled into the kitchen, taking the plate from the man who announced brightly, "Pancakes for all!"

It was an odd breakfast, to say the least. A girl in a towel who had slept with two of the men, one man trying to disappear, one who was glowering at everyone, a shirtless man who was in WAY too good a mood (and had been belatedly introduced as "Edwardo"), and one who was generally amused at the entire situation.

There was a sort of beautiful dysfunction in the way they made conversation.

"Hey, Roger, pass the syrup."

"How the fuck could you sleep with my girlfriend?"

"Leave him alone!"

"Oh, Roger..."

"Is he your type, or am I?"

"Boys..."

"You really want to know the answer?"

"Guys, come on..."

"Fuck off."

"Language!"

"Who are you, again?"

"Behave!"

"Listen..."

Kiss.

Silence.

Sigh.

"Well..."

Chime.

"More pancakes, anyone?"

"NO!"

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"All right, everyone, get your asses into gear. We've got a gig _tomorrow_, and there's supposed to be some record guy there. If any one of you," Roger fixed each of his band members with a glare in turn, "do _anything, ANYTHING, _to mess this up..."

"Yeah, yeah, we get it. Let's just play!"

Mark zoomed in on Roger's hands as they strummed the first chord. His fingers held the pick gently, almost lovingly, as he swept it violently over the strings. Zoom out as Roger leaned forward to sing into the microphone, close on his face.

The drums started, at first just a light cymbal. The entire audience (Mark and April) waited with baited breath for that first pop on the snare that signalled the song's true beginning. Zoom out, focus on the band as a whole, then on each band member in turn, then back to rest on Roger. _This is going to be great for "Behind the Music" someday..._

The song was nearly halfway done when his camera was suddenly snatched out of his hands. Mark looked up wildly to see April, grinning, extending him a hand. "Dance with me!"

Mark shook his head, but April grabbed his hand. "Please?"

Mark looked at her for a moment. She wasn't anyone he'd wanted to share their life; not this way. Things were better with April, he admitted. She was Roger's distraction, the thing that he would focus on instead of Mark. She had put the ease back into the loft, and Mark was grateful for that...but at the same time he couldn't help but wonder if she was bringing him and Roger closer together or if she was stealing his best friend.

He started to refuse, then stopped himself. _Isn't this what I wanted? To put down my camera for once and dance? _The beat of the music was seductive, and he felt himself accept her hand, stand up, and dance. It wasn't the kind of club dancing he was (mildly) used to; he wasn't trying to fit anyone's ideas of how it should go, or following a pattern. He was doing whatever he wanted, waving his arms around and shaking his head wildly. April was laughing, but not at him.

It was silly, it was fun, it was free.

As the song ended, Mark stopped. He sat down, flushed, but exhilarated. Roger's drummer sniggered, but Roger threw the pick at him. "Shut the hell up, Tom."

"Hey, chill, man."

Roger smiled at Mark, a real sincere smile for the first time since April had joined them for breakfast almost a month earlier. Feeling a wave of relief and contentment, for a moment Mark was almost grateful she was there.

Almost.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Okay, that was a rather random chapter...full of randomness! For some reason, it was the hardest for me to write. Huh. Weird. Whatever. Stuff happens in the next one, believe me! And I'm rushing off to post that right now! (can you even believe the wonder that is me?)


	8. A Cry for All to Hear

Eh...well, that's the last one. For right now, I mean. Certainly not forever. Perish the thought! But it is two am, and I do have that stupid paper due tomorrow...(hey, I've got my name written! That's something...), so this will definitely be the last one tonight. Damn, I'm good!

Fraulein, I expect some SERIOUS groveling! Look how good I've been with my updates...and look how BAD you've been! Don't you see how much we suffer from the lack of boyporn???? :slaps wrist: BAD author!

Ah, well. Enjoy, children.

To Chelsea, who said on the phone two nights ago, "Why don't you make it two chapters?" To which I responded, "Huh. You think it's long enough?" "Uh, yeah. Look at it!" "Well, if you say so..." "Actually, better make it three." "WHAT?" "Think of how happy your reviewers will be!" "I don't know..."

I do as my lady bids. :blows kiss:

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"SURPRISE!"

Mark nearly dropped his camera in shock, fumbling frantically to get a hold on it. Roger and Collins had obviously been waiting for a long time for him to come home, he realized as he caught sight of a burnt-out candle stub currently residing in a small chocolate cupcake. For some reason, they were both dressed formally, as if for a celebration. "Oh, my God! You guys...you didn't have to do this!"

Roger embraced him tightly, lifting him at least a couple inches off the ground. "Of course we did. Not every day the baby boy turns twenty big ones!"

"Don't call me that."

"Hey," Collins interjected, "Your mother sent you something."

"What?"

Collins pointed to a conveniently opened package on the kitchen table. "Roger opened it," he immediately disavowed.

"Hey! You wanted to know what was in it, too!"

Collins grinned, but it wasn't up to usual. There had been something bothering him lately, Mark had noticed. In an acute role reversal, Mark had questioned him relentlessly, but nothing had come of it. Eventually, he had dropped the subject. Collins would tell them when he was ready.

Mark eyed the remains of a brown paper package surrounding what looked like..."A toaster?"

Roger shrugged. "I guess it's all yours. I mean, of course it's yours, but I don't eat toast."

Collins interrupted, "That's great, Roger, but aren't you forgetting something?"

Roger stared at him blankly for a moment. Collins raised his eyebrows and motioned to Mark, clearing his throat. Roger's face lit up. "Oh, right!"

He produced a somewhat crumpled envelope from the back pocket of his pants, proclaimed, "Happy Birthday, Mark!" and handed it to his friend.

Mark eyed the envelope dubiously for a moment, somewhat disturbed by the excited look on Roger's face.

Eventually he took pity on his friend (he was almost bouncing) and slit open the envelope. Looking down, he could hardly believe his eyes as they fell on--

"No way!"

Collins laughed as Roger shouted, "I told you he'd love 'em!"

"But these are for..."

"Tonight. You'd better get dressed."

"Fuck!" Mark swore, looking down at his sad attire. "I don't think I have anything to wear to the opera."

Roger grinned at him. "Maybe they'll think you're part of the play. One of the starving artists, you know."

Collins laughed. "You can borrow one of my shirts, but I'm pretty sure my pants are way too big. I mean, the shirts are also too big, but at least it won't fall off at an embarrassing time." He retreated to his room.

Mark smiled at him. "Thanks, Collins."

Roger pouted. "Don't I get anything?"

Mark embraced Roger suddenly, tightly. It had been a long time since Roger had been this involved, this alert, and he was touched that Roger had made the effort for his birthday. "This was your idea, wasn't it?"

Roger grinned and ruffled Mark's hair. "What makes you say that?"

Mark shrugged. "I know you. Besides, who else would have thought of tickets to "La Boheme?""

Collins emerged from his room with a clean white button-down shirt, which he handed to Mark. "Get dressed, Birthday Boy. The show starts in less than an hour."

The phone rang.

Roger moved to answer it (old habits die hard), but Mark held him back. "We screen, Roger."

Finally, the machine picked up. All three of the men's voices chorused, "Speak!"

"Hello, this message is for Mr. Thomas B. Collins. Mr. Collins, this is Nancy from the--"

In a flash, Collins had bolted to pick up the phone and turn off the machine. "Hello, this is Thomas Collins." He headed immediately for his room as Roger and Mark shared a what-was-that-about? glance. A moment later, Collins came out, looking much more sober. "Uh, I can't come tonight."

Mark looked at him, concerned. "Why not?"

"I've got an appointment. You two go without me, I'll see you later." He grabbed his coat, heading out of the apartment. On the way, he squeezed Mark's shoulder briefly. "Happy birthday, Mark. Sorry about this."

"No, it's okay."

As the door closed, Roger turned to Mark and said, "Well, I guess it's just you and me, then, huh?"

Mark smiled. "Yeah, I guess so." He'd been dying to have some time alone with Roger lately. "Hey, I should take a quick shower before we go, okay?"

Roger playfully shoved him. "Finally!"

Mark gasped as the cold water hit his hot skin, nicely cancelling out the July heat that had been accumulating all day. _Oh, that feels so good..._

He could feel the stress he'd been carrying lately rinse away, down the drain. And tonight, he thought, he would have Roger all to himself. It wasn't that he didn't like April; she had actually helped his relationship with Roger a great deal. Things relaxed when she was around. Roger no longer acted defensive, Mark no longer felt he was obligated to watch Roger every minute.

He didn't delude himself into thinking she was a good influence on Roger, though, or that she was the same girl he had gone home with nearly half a year earlier. She was using too—he had seen the marks on her arms often enough when she would wear short sleeves (it was summertime, after all). He didn't know if she'd been using before she wound up with Roger or not, but it didn't really matter in the end.

He really liked her; not romantically, that was over. He wasn't even attracted to her anymore, not really. She was a different person. But he liked having her around, most of the time. The only problem was that she was at the loft _all_ the time. She wasn't living with them, _per se_, but she might as well have been. She spent most nights there, leaving Mark on the couch (or on some occasions, Collins would notify him that the other room would be free). Where his and Roger's conversations had been stilted before she had arrived, they had now mostly stopped.

He finished his shower, drying off vigorously and putting on his regular jeans with Collins's shirt. It looked nearly ridiculous, but Mark decided it was better to look silly in a clean white shirt than to look like a bum at the opera on his birthday.

The theater was just darkening as they slipped into their seats, attempting to stifle their laughter and garnering dirty looks from whitehaired patrons. Roger had climbed into the taxi, pulling Mark after him, and ordered in a pompous British tone, "To the opera, my good man!" The cabbie had only rolled his eyes, but Mark had cracked up, causing Roger to stare down his nose primly, sending Mark into another fit. They had passed the entire ride doing strange accents, made funnier by the fact that Mark couldn't do an accent to save his life. It was the kind of easy rapport they hadn't had for a long time, and Mark wondered how things ever got so bad between them that they had lost times like these.

The music was just beginning as someone else pushed their way past the indignant theatergoers in their row. Mark looked up from his program, and his heart sank. He whispered to Roger, more harshly than he had intended, "What is she doing here?"

Roger looked at him, puzzled. "We had an extra ticket. I called her when you were in the shower. What's wrong?" He turned his head to kiss April as she slid into the seat next to him.

"Nothing," Mark muttered. "Nothing." He turned his attention back to the stage, trying very hard to ignore his jealousy.

The opera was wonderful, and Mark found himself sucked into the story even as he smouldered with resentment at the attention Roger paid to April all through the evening, ignoring Mark completely. But he also managed to focus on the entertainment; sometimes too much so. They were nearly asked to leave as Roger shouted, "I love this song!" in the middle of Musetta's Waltz. Mark was pretty sure they'd gotten dirty looks from even the actress herself. He had elbowed Roger sharply, and the ushers showed signs of heading over, but Roger had quieted down. He had even gotten somewhat teary in the end, but of course would have rabidly denied doing any such thing.

They had been the first to stand during the ovation, and Roger had even wanted to wait by the stage door to meet the actors. They had made a rapid exit, however, as Musetta caught sight of Roger and started shrieking in Italian. They bolted for the nearest taxi, laughing hysterically, but Mark had quickly ceased to be amused as Roger and April spent the entire ride back to the loft necking. The irony of the situation failed even to bring a small smile to his face.

Roger had chased a giggling April up the stairs, then into "their" room as Mark sat down heavily on the couch. Collins' door was closed, so he supposed he was spending the night out here again. _Swell. The perfect ending to the perfect day_.

What was terrible, though, is that it had been a wonderful day...until _she_ had shown up. Mark lay back on the couch, closing his eyes tightly, when he heard noises coming from the bedroom.

Creak.

Giggle.

Gasp.

Groan.

"Roger!"

_Fuck!_ Mark grabbed a pillow, pulling it over his head, but the noises kept coming. He swallowed, feeling himself growing aroused. Try as he might, he couldn't get the image out of his head of Roger, naked and sweating, as the moans increased in volume.

_Wait a second. Why am I thinking about Roger? Shouldn't I be thinking about April?_

Roger, moaning and panting.

_What the hell is wrong with me?_

Roger, face flushed.

_This isn't normal!_

Roger, strong arms braced on the bed.

A feminine cry split the air, causing Mark to grit his teeth. _Get off him, bitch, he's mine._

His eyes snapped open in surprise, and he sat up, alarmed. Roger...his? What was he thinking? He tried to shut out the sound of Roger's last loud groan, but it was as impossible a task as banishing Roger's image from his mind, where it seemed to be permanently etched. Desperately, he pictured Nannete Himmelfarb, his first girlfriend, but she quickly turned into Roger in his mind's eye. He ran through the catalogue of every girl he'd ever dated, but none of them held a candle to his brooding, fun-loving roommate. He tried recalling Roger at his worst;the time Roger had fallen down drunk into a trash can outside their building, the time he'd gotten into a fight with his backup guitarist and gotten an enormous black eye, the time he'd fallen flat on his face in a mud puddle. The time Mark had found him in the bathroom, incoherent with bad smack. Nothing worked. Nothing could make Mark stop caring before, why should it now? Every bad image, every reason to avoid him, melted into his eyes, his voice, his infectious smile, his graceful musicians' hands, his strong arms...wrapped around him, holding him.

_Does this mean I'm in love with him? Does that mean I'm gay?_

His initial reaction was to brush off the idea, much as he always had in the past when the subject had come up; a taunt from a classmate, the occasional invitation to dinner. He had never really entertained the notion, mostly because he really enjoyed sex with women. But he couldn't deny the fact that the image of Roger did more for him than any of the women he'd ever slept with.

_Shit!_ he thought violently, repressing the urge to pull a Roger and throw something at the wall. It wouldn't do any good, and it wouldn't change things at all. The idea made sense, he admitted. Roger was the one person who had ever understood him, the person that saved his life but desperately needed saving of his own. Roger was strength, warmth, home.

Not to mention that he was fucking gorgeous.

_Fine. I'm in love with Roger. What the hell does that mean? _

Roger, Mark told himself, was an idiot, had very little concept of fidelity or commitment. Relationships with him were bad ideas. He changed girlfriends as often as he changed chords on his guitar. _Not lately_, a little voice nagged him. He had never cheated on April, to the best of Mark's knowledge. And he had never exactly technically cheated on his past girlfriends, either; they just hadn't been exclusive. The girls hadn't wanted love from Roger, they'd wanted a good fuck. And that's what they'd gotten.

Well, Mark continued, trying to convince himself to fall out of love, Roger was a drug addict. That wasn't something that would go away. _But I could help him through that! He'd stop if he were with me, I know he would. And even if he didn't...he's so fucking worth it. _Telling himself anything else would be a lie, and he knew it. With a groan, he flopped backwards onto the couch.

_Well, what now?_

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's Note: IS EVERYONE HAPPY NOW?????

I got "David Searching" in the mail halfway through completing this chapter (die, writer's block, die!!!!!!), so it was rather beyond me to write Anthony Rapp as straight. And yes, Mark will always be Anthony in my mind. So sue me; but again, be aware that all I own is the pomegranate.

Plus, the slashy muses were getting really angry! They must be appeased!!!

Heh. Mark thinks life's bad _now._..just wait, sweetie. Just wait.


	9. It Never Mattered Before

Oh. My. God. Can it be? Did she actually update? Yes, my friends, it is true:hides in a corner, mumbling about rehearsal schedules and midterms and crazy people visiting her:

Okay, there are no great excuses. Just...uh...:pushes the beauty that is Cary Shields forward: Distract them!

This is dedicated first and foremost to Chris, for being who she is. I love you, girl.

To all the reviewers who I'm sure are growing to hate me for NEVER updating...those days are over, my friends! Whee!

Also dedicated to Cary Shields, for being the hottest, sexiest, DEFINITELY slashiest Roger that exists. Yes, my friends, Lael finally saw RENT! Twice! Heh. She likes living in New York state. And she's going to stop talking in third person. Okay, enough notes. Storytime!

:the next day:

Sleeping on the couch, Mark thought grumpily, was not the most comfortable of activities, no matter how used to it you were. Especially not on their couch, the lumpy, ratty, and slightly trashed piece of shit it was. Eyes squeezed shut to block out the sun streaming in from the window, he slowly sat up, jammed his glasses on his face, and stumbled toward the bathroom. He pushed open the door only to stop dead in his tracks.

Roger had just pushed the shower curtain back, water dripping from his body. He didn't seem at all embarrassed to see Mark standing there. "Hey, hand me a towel."

Blushing, Mark averted his eyes. _This is ridiculous. This wouldn't have mattered to you yesterday. There's no reason to be embarrassed...after all, it's not like he can read your thoughts, or anything._ Thoughts that were becoming steadily less pure as he handed Roger a towel.

Roger grinned. "Hey, man, you okay? You're acting kinda funny." As he spoke, he dried himself off as if he hadn't a care in the world.

_This is insane! He's acting like it's not even uncomfortable...oh, of course. For him it isn't. Because he's not a freak who lusts after his best friend, like YOU! _"I, uh...I have to go...eat some breakfast."

"Are you sure? I'm pretty much done here, and I bet you didn't come in here to watch me." Roger grinned, obviously kidding around with him.

Mark laughed nervously, and shrugged. "Yeah, well..." He trailed off, turned around and headed for the kitchen. He berated himself constantly as he poured a bowl of cereal, but couldn't help staring at Roger over the box of Cap'n Crunch as he walked from the bathroom to the bedroom.

Just then, April walked out of the bedroom, clad only in one of Roger's big shirts that fell to mid-thigh on her. Roger grinned. "Hey, baby, I didn't know you were up." He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her to him.

She giggled. "Well, I am! Good morning, Mark."

Mark mumbled something that might vaguely be interpreted as a greeting, and Roger laughed. "Hey, what's your problem?"

Mark snapped, "Leave me the fuck alone, Roger!"

Roger frowned. "Mark, what...?"

"Nothing. Just...nothing." Mark stood up, not hungry anymore, and pushed past Roger and April, grabbing his camera and climbing out the window. He shut the window almost all the way behind him, sighed, and sat down on the fire escape, legs dangling over the edge. He sat there for a moment, completely still, just breathing. In, out In, out. After a minute or two, he flipped his camera on, pointing it at himself. "Close on Mark, temporarily and voluntarily evicted from his apartment. Pan across the busy street...hell, pan across anywhere but the loft, where Roger continues to make an ass of himself." He sighed, closing his eyes. _Solitude..._

No sooner had this thought entered his mind when he heard a high-pitched giggle coming from inside. He gritted his teeth. _Even when I'm alone, she's still getting in my life. _Resolutely, he flipped his camera back on, making use of his time to at least garner some shots with interesting prospective. He was in the middle of filming the neighbour's apparently suicidal cat when the phone rang. And rang. And rang. He heard Roger say, "Hello?" and mumbled to himself, "We screen." _Great. Just what I need, a pep talk from Mom._

But Roger didn't open the window to hand him the phone. Instead, he heard an excited exclamation, and peered curiously in the window. Roger's face had lit up, and he caught Mark's eye and motioned him inside. Intrigued, Mark forsook his retreat, climbing back in through the window. "Collins," Roger mouthed at him, then went back to his conversation. "Where the hell did you go lastno, I just mean...you're WHERE?" Roger's face changed to complete shock, then let out a laugh. "What the hell are you doing there? Man, what did you do?"

"Where?" Mark asked, but Roger ignored him. "When the fuck are you coming back?" He stopped, sobering suddenly. "You...you're not? Collins, man, talk to me. What happened yesterday?"

Frusterated, Mark tried again. "Where is he? What's going on?" Roger just shushed him and waved him away. "Uh huh...what do you mean? What kind of news? No...don't hang up on me, I...fuck!" Looking confused, Roger hung up the phone. Mark almost pounced on him. "What's going on? Where is he?"

Roger grinned. "He's in jail."

"WHAT? And...why the fuck are you smiling?"

"He's in jail in Greece."

Mark blinked. "Collins is in Greece? How the hell did he get there so fast?"

Roger shrugged. "He's good at that kind of thing. Used to do it a lot. That's why he wasn't living here when you moved in. I guess he got some news yesterday then...hopped a plane. He wouldn't tell me what it was, says he wants to tell me in person."

"Huh. Weird. So...did he at least tell you why he's in jail?"

Roger shook his head. "Nah, not important. Just another anarchist story for him to retell when he gets back, probably."

"But what if something happens to him? Is he gonna be okay in there?"

Roger snorted. "It's Collins. I wouldn't expect him to be in there for more than a day or two. He has a way of getting out of trouble." He looked around the loft. "I guess that means you can have his room until he gets back."

"Yeah...guess so." He looked over at Roger. "Can we afford to pay the rent by ourselves?"

Roger laughed and punched his arm. _Ow._ "What do you mean, we? I don't see you getting off your lazy ass and going to work."

Mark blushed. "I've got an interview next week!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. And I'll tell you how it's gonna go. You're going to go in, decide instantly it's not what you want to do with your life, and spend the rest of the interview making fun of the person who's interviewing you, probably without them realizing it."

Mark gave him a half-hearted grin. "I can't help it. They're such...they're so pretentious!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You can't help it because you're too fucking lazy to get a job. No...that's not it. It's not 'artsy' enough, is it?" Roger grinned.

"Yeah, yeah, fuck you too." Mark rolled his eyes. "But are we looking for a roommate or not?"

Roger shrugged. "I never really look for roommates. They happen."

Mark stared at him. "That's a weird way of looking at it."

"True, though. You'll see."

Mark shook his head, but not three days later, there was a knock on the door. "Maaaark..." Roger's voice came from his and April's room, sounding strung-out. Mark rolled his eyes, put his projecter back in its case, and opened the door to find"Benny!"

"Howdy!" Benjamin Coffin the Third stood in the doorway, suitcase by his feet, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and a box in his hands. "How you doing, kid?"

"What...what the hell are you doing here? How did you even know where I was?"

Benny pushed the box into Mark's hands. "Your mom says hi." Mark looked down to see it was full of baby photos of himself, a batch of cookies, and a scarf she had knitted him. "Aww, now I almost feel bad for ignoring her." He grinned. "Almost." Then he noticed the suitcases. "Uh..you on your way somewhere?"

"Yup! Here." Benny picked up his bags and walked inside, tossing them on the couch, which groaned under the weight. He looked around, curious. "Dude, this place is a shithole."

Mark grinned. "Isn't it great?" Then the rest of what Benny said sunk in. "Wait...you're staying here? Now?"

"Yep! I got a job in the city, and figured I might as well stay with you. You know, save as much on rent as I can. Save up some money, eventually start my own business...I've got plans, man. I've got a future. And right now, my plans involve living on your couch." He grinned, flashing white teeth.

Mark shrugged, motioned to the couch. "All yours. Let me tell Roger we've got a guest."

Benny looked at him, puzzled. "Who's Roger? Your boyfriend?" He smirked at Mark.

Mark glared at him, then went over and opened Roger's door. "Roger, there's..." He stopped abruptly.

Roger had about an inch and a half of cold steel protruding from his left arm, April's head in his lap, and a euphoric look on his face. The couple on the bed stopped what they were doing to stare at him as he blinked and tried to form words with a mouth that didn't want to cooperate. April pulled away from Roger and caught Mark's eyes. There was some sort of recognition there...something Mark knew he didn't want to see in her eyes. He abruptly said, "D-don't let me bother you. We've got a new roommate." Then turned around and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Benny was looking at him quizzically. "What the hell was that?" Mark ignored him, slamming the door to his own room (now that Collins was gone) and throwing himself facedown on the bed. Try as he would, nothing could get that fatal image out of his head. Knowing a friend was a junkie was bad enough, but seeing him shoot up..._A friend. As if that's all he is to you. _Through the dim recesses of the fog he'd drifted into, he heard a knock on another door and Benny's voice saying, "Yo, dunno who's in there, just wanna say hi..."

Mark was up in a flash, in the living room and grabbing Benny's arm. "Don't disturb him now. He'll be out later." He heard a creak and turned around to see Roger's door opening, and Roger standing in the doorway, about to speak. Mark ran forward and pushed him back into his room, shutting the door with him inside. "He, uh, he's sick. Don't want you to catch anything."

Benny was giving him a very strange look, but shrugged it off. "Whatever. Just trying to be friendly." He flopped down on the couch, staring at the ceiling. "You know your mother would have a stroke if she ever saw this place?"

Mark chuckled. "No shit. Why do you think I live here?"

Benny raised an eyebrow suggestively. "The company? Is it that Roger guy?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "Asshole. He's got a girlfriend." _Whoops, didn't mean that to sound so bitter..._

Before he could react to the sound of the door opening, Roger had walked out of his room and offered his hand to Benny. "Hey, man. Welcome to shhhithole New York!" He giggled a little—a very strange sound, coming from Roger—and Mark sighed. _So much for keeping his drug problem secret._

Benny grinned at him and shook his hand. "Hey. Thanks for letting me stay. Name's Benjamin Coffin the Third, or Benny."

Roger nodded solemnly. "Benny." Then he dropped the solemn face and burst into laughter. "Tha's like...a dog's name!"

Benny raised his eyebrows. "Dude...being drunk at ten am is so not cool."

Roger made a "pfft" sound and shook his head. "I'm not drunk, man, this is just me. Like...it's who I am. Get it?"

_That's enough._ Mark stood up, grabbing Roger by the arm. "Okay, Rog, back into your room. You can come out later."

Roger glared at him. "You really wanna be my mom, don' you? Don' you?" Mark rolled his eyes. "Yes, I want to be your mother. Get the fuck into your room."

Benny looked a little concerned. "Hey, Mark, chill. What's the big deal? Isn't this his place, too?"

April appeared in the doorway to Roger's room. "Babyyyyy..." she drew out the word in a whiny tone, "come back to bed. I wanna fuuuuuck."

Benny raised his eyebrows at Mark, who ignored him. Roger pulled her close, pressing their hips together and kissing her neck. "Why don't we fuck right here? Might teach Marky something." They both laughed, and Mark turned bright red. April met his eyes over Roger's shoulder, and there was definitely something in there he hadn't seen before, and it wasn't heroin. Something glinted in those eyes, pure and sharp.

Finally Roger relented and ushered her back into their room, leaving Mark to close the door on their uninhibited sounds of enjoyment. Swallowing, he turned to Benny. "Sorry, they're, uh..."

Benny blinked at him. "Uh, wow. That was interesting."

Mark shrugged. "What can you do? They're...he's not really like that. You just got him at a, uh, weird time."

"Yeah...weird time. Whatever you say. Girlfriend's got a nice ass, though."

Mark didn't even respond, just retreated into his room. On his way, he called, "Welcome to the loft."


	10. Turn on me, I'll turn to you

* * *

Another long-overdue chapter, but... :points to evil classes: They're eating my soul. Pity me? Good. I knew you'd understand. Just be grateful I wrote this instead of my essay comparing "Twelfth Night" to "The Way of the World." 

And enjoy, children!

* * *

:one month later: 

"He wants you."

Mark swallowed hard, eyes snapping open. _She can't mean what I think she means._ He heard Roger turn over and ask in a slurred voice, "Who, Benny?"

The bed in the next room squeaked as if someone were sitting up - April, Mark guessed. From his position in his own room, there was no way he could see what was happening, but the paper-thin walls along with the hole he had discovered in the wall behind Collins' dresser provided acoustics as clear as if they were in the same room. He didn't want to eavesdrop, but it seemed now that the conversation taking place very much concerned him.

"Not Benny, you dumbfuck." April giggled. "Mark. He practically drools on you."

Roger snorted. "Everyone wants me. I'm a fucking rock star, remember?"

"You're also fucking arrogant. But what are you gonna do about it?"

"Do? What the fuck are you talking about?" Roger sounded annoyed, and somewhat bored, Mark observed. At least, he thought, that was an improvement over freaked-out, or disgusted.

"About Mark, you idiot." April sounded equally annoyed. "He wants you!"

Roger groaned. "It's Maaark. He's not like that, April. You just don't get him. You never gave him a fucking chance."

"Me? What the fuck are you talking about? I've been totally nice to him. Pass me the joint."

"But you're such a bitch. Why are you being like this? He didn't do anything to you. Except fuck you, so I should be the jealous one." Roger's tone was still bored, as if what she was saying couldn't matter less to him.

April grumbled, "So fucking what? You've fucked half the girls in the city, from what it looks like at the clubs. They're all over you. Like your roommate."

There was the sound of the bed squeaking, then footsteps as Roger got up and started walking around the room. "What the fuck is your problem with him? He's not doing anything to you, OR me. And just because he's not a fucking jock doesn't mean he's a fag, you know. He fucked you, didn't he?"

Mark was glad they couldn't see him through the walls, the way his cheeks were flushing. He was sure he was almost purple with shame by this point. It was bad enough that April had figured out his secret, but that Roger was defending his masculinity...

April mumbled something incoherent, but Mark could guess that it probably wasn't complimentary to his skills in bed from Roger's chuckle. He couldn't figure out what happened, but the footsteps stopped, and the bed creaked again. The next thing he heard was April squeak and Roger laugh, then say, "Aww, you're jealous. What's wrong, baby, you think little Marky's gonna rape me in my sleep?"

April shrieked, and there was a renewed flurry of springs squeaking. "Roger, get the fuck off me!"

_How the fuck did Collins ever get any sleep in here? Oh...that's probably why he was never here. Goddamn thin walls...goddamn cheap loft...goddamn Roger, goddamn April, goddamn me!_ Mark pulled his pillow over his head in a fit of self-loathing as the noises in the other room turned decidedly more amorous.

* * *

April rolled her eyes as she took a long drag on the last remaining bit of her joint, holding the smoke inside her lungs just for a moment before blowing it out in a sigh. "I'm telling you, Mo, it's driving me nuts." 

Maureen shifted so she was lying with her head in April's lap. "So why don't you do something about it? It's not like you have to put up with it, you know. Just say something to him." She took a hit on her own joint, then exhaled up at the ceiling.

"Like what?" April brushed Maureen's hair out of her eyes. She looked around the dingy room, a little disgusted. "This place is a shithole, you know." The tiny apartment was barely furnished, but the decorative fabrics and posters did nothing to cover up the mouseholes, cracks in the plaster, and odd discolored patches that graced the ceiling. There was barely room for anything except the mattress on the floor and the full-length mirror propped up against one wall, with clothes spilling out of the closet across nearly the entire floor.

Maureen groaned, then sat up on the mattress. "Not only is it a shithole, I'm losing my lease."

"Losing your lease? I thought you were fucking the landlord."

Maureen pouted at her. "His wife caught us."

"Aww, that blows. But back to my problems!"

Maureen rolled her eyes. "Right, right, the pathetic little lovesick roommate." She put her hands on April's shoulders, pulling her close. "You just say to him, 'Look. I know you're in love, but you have to get over it, because I'm with Roger. And no matter what you do, you're never, never going to have me." She kissed April softly on the lips, then pulled away. "That'll do the trick. If it doesn't, call me over, and I'll set him straight."

_Yeah, but I'm not the one he's in love with. It's just easier to explain it that way. _It might have been the pot, but a light flicked on in April's mind. "Set him straight? Hmm..." A slow grin made its way onto her face, and Maureen frowned suspiciously. "What are you thinking? You look like the wicked witch of the west on a really wicked day." She giggled. "Or I've smoked way too much of this shit."

April's face lit up, and she pushed Maureen back onto the bed, straddling her hips. "Hey, Mo?"

Maureen looked up at her, curious. "Hey, what?"

"Want a place to live?"

* * *

"Hey, Marky..." Mark looked up from the screenplay he was furiously scribbling away at to see Roger leaning on his doorframe, in just a pair of ripped jeans. "What do you want, Roger?" He tried not to blush.

Roger made his way slowly over to Mark's bed, crouching down on it and crawling over to his roommate. Mark tried to back away, catching a strange and unfamiliar look in Roger's eyes. "Roger...what are you on?"

Roger shrugged, grinning a little too wide, eyes dilated unnaturally. "Smack, pot, booze. Doesn't matter."

Mark swallowed. "That shit's going to kill you. Where's April?"

Roger grinned even wider, moving so he was hovering directly over Mark. "She said something about girl time with a friend. We're all...alone..." Without warning, he leaned down and pressed his lips firmly to Mark's.

Shock, lust, and a spark of hope warred for dominance in Mark's mind, and he unwittingly parted his lips for Roger's questing, hungry tongue. _Oh God...this can't be wrong, it feels right..._Roger's hands were everywhere, in his hair, on his neck, sliding down his chest, stroking his sides surely. He involuntarily arched up against Roger, surrendering every bit of himself to the lovely, hard body above him. It was only when Roger's hand moved to cup the bulge between his thighs that he was jolted out of the trance he had fallen into, and his eyes snapped open. "Roger," he tried to say, but Roger merely crushed his lips more tightly to his own, tongue plundering his mouth ruthlessly. Mark's body went rigid, and he pushed Roger away forcefully by his shoulders. Breathless from the kiss, he stared at Roger in shock. "What the hell are you doing?"

Roger just grinned that same vacant grin. "What, you don't like?" He eyed Mark's crotch pointedly. "It looks like you like." He smirked.

Mark blushed hotly, and pulled his legs up to rest his chin on his knees. "Roger, you're high."

Roger just laughed at him, a high-pitched sound that sounded completely unlike the Roger Mark first moved in with. "So fucking what? You're still hard. You still want me." He leaned forward again to claim his lips, but Mark evaded his embrace, getting off the bed hurriedly, back to the wall. "Get a hold of yourself! What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm trying to give you everything you want, Marky." Roger held his arms out to his sides, offering himself. "Don't you want me? It's not like I can't see you looking at me, you know. God, even April sees it."

Mark glared at him. "Everything I ever want? A pity fuck because you're too drunk and high to care isn't what I want, Roger. If that's what you think, you don't know anything about me." He muttered to himself, "Not that you ever did."

Roger rolled his eyes and got off the bed, walking over to Mark. "The fuck I don't, Mark." Mark tried to slip out of the room, but Roger pinned him to the wall, hands on both his shoulders. "I know you better than you ever know. I know you're scared shitless right now." He leaned forward and caught Mark in another bruising kiss, not allowing him to pull away. He eventually came up for air, and looked into Mark's eyes.

Mark desperately searched for any traces of his friend in this man's face, but all he could see were pupils that were too wide and a grin that was too large. This strange man leaned even closer, so their noses were nearly touching, and whispered in a breath that smelled of pot and beer, "How about it, Marky? I'll give you a fuck you'll never forget."

With _great_ force of will, Mark pushed Roger away so hard he landed on the bed. In an anguished voice, he forced out, "That's NOT what I want! Get the fuck out of my room!"

Roger shrugged, got up off his bed, and walked out the door. As he passed Mark, he murmured, "My offer stands, when you change your mind."

As he walked out, leaving the door open behind him, Mark shouted, enraged and humiliated, "I thought you were straight!"

Roger's too-dreamy voice drifted back into the room, "I'm a fucking rock star!"

Mark collapsed back onto his bed, covering his eyes with his arm, and groaned. _Why couldn't you have left me alone? _It would have been so much easier if he could stop thinking about Roger's hot mouth on his, Roger's large, calloused hands on his chest, Roger's lean, toned body pressed close to his, pinning him against the bed. Mark shivered, still feeling those hands on his body. Without realizing it, his hands started running over his own body, tracing the path Roger's had followed. His breathing quickened as his thumbs brushed over his nipples, and he gasped as his hand wandered lower.

In the next room, Roger smirked to himself as he heard his name drifting through the thin walls, choked off by a hand over the mouth uttering it.

* * *

That's all for right now...another chapter soon, I promise! As long as I get plenty of reviews, that is... 


	11. Whirling, swirling, tumbling queen

Many, many thanks to my wonderful, beautiful reviewers! Without you, (the hand gropes?) this would never be here. Never fear, I WILL finish this story, gosh darnit! As long as people still want to read it, I'll keep writing it. Sometimes it'll take a while, but...it will STILL be written!

And may I just put forward that we REALLY need more RENTfic on this site? We're being ridiculously overrun by CATS, and that really must stop. Really. Come on, fanficers, I know you can do it! Let's take back the site!

Especial thanks to dietcherryemma, for making me happy enough with her praise to actually get off my ass (or on it, seeing as I'm sitting at the computer) and write this chappie. See? Reviewers totally make the difference!

Dedicated to my beautiful, lovely, special, wonderful Chris. I miss you, love. (for those of you freaking out, she's not dead, she's just in Hell)

Written while listening to La Boheme, incidentally, for my Magic of Opera course. Hmm...

* * *

Mark was awoken the next morning by a completely unfamiliar sensation; he smelled tea, and he wasn't making any. He sniffed the air a couple times to be sure he wasn't having sensory delusions, but there was a definite aroma of English Breakfast wafting into his room. He sat up, fumbling for his glasses, intening to investigate the source of the smell, when his door opened. Roger stood in sillouhette, framed by the doorway, red plastic cup in hand. He shrugged, as if to ask permission to enter. Mark swallowed, unsure if he wanted to deal with his roommate right now, but Roger looked so forlorn, standing there...Mark sighed. "Come on in, Roger." 

Roger walked inside, uncertainty written in his posture. This was a side to Roger Mark hadn't seen for months, and he sat up, curious. "What do you want?"

The musician remained standing, but handed Mark the cup he was holding. Mark took it, and to his astonishment, it was filled with tea; it had three times the normal amout of tea leaves, and was nearly steeped to black, but Mark was still touched by the gesture. He looked up at Roger, but the other man merely avoided his gaze and mumbled, "Just...thought you might want some. You've got your interview today, remember?"

Mark blinked. "Yeah, I remember. _You_ remember?"

Roger crossed his arms defensively. "I listen, you know. And my memory's fine. You told me about it a few days ago. That newspaper office, right?"

"Copy shop," Mark corrected softly. "The newspaper job fell through."

Roger shrugged. "You don't want to work there, anyway." He sat down on the bed, watching Mark carefully for any resistance, then stared down at his hands.

There was something different about Roger, Mark noticed. He laid a hand on Roger's shoulder, and the other man turned to meet his eyes. That's when Mark knew; he was sober. It was the first time he could remember seeing him completely drug-free in at least a month, and he was a little unsettled by this change. "Roger...what's going on?"

Roger shrugged his hand off, then mumbled, "Just...wanted to let you know you're important to me. I don't just want to...I mean, I don't want you just for..." He quickly grew impatient with his lack of words, and abruptly stood up and walked out of the room, leaving Mark sitting there dumbfounded, a small smile growing on his face.

The smile remained as he got out of bed, dressing as he tried a sip of the awful tea, then sat down to force his old, worn shoes onto his feet. As the final shoelace cooperated, he heard a melodic guitar riff floating across the thin partition, and the smile widened. He hadn't heard Roger compose anything new in weeks.

Finally dressed, Mark tiptoed into the kitchen, being careful to pour the tea quietly down the sink. Approaching Roger's room, he knocked softly. The notes paused, and the husky baritone voice called, "It's open."

Mark eased the door open, then walked in and sat on the bed, careful to avoid the discarded lacy blue thong hanging on the bedpost, and eyeing the bed dubiously for any of April's other 'delicates'. "Is that a new song? You're playing the acoustic."

Roger resumed his picking, head bent over then neck of his guitar. "Yeah...they always come easier on this one. I mean, you know how I feel about the Fender, but there's just something about the tone on this thing." He started humming under his breath as his fingers picked out a slow tune, smiling a little.

Mark watched him, content. He folded his legs beheath him, resting his head on his hands, elbows on his knees. "What's it about?"

"Nighttime," Roger told him in a soft voice. "The sounds, the smells, the...screams." He swallowed. "When you lose control." He refused to meet Mark's eyes, but the smaller man understood that this was more of an apology than words could ever be.

They sat there peacefully for the better part of an hour. Roger would venture a lyric, Mark would voice his approval, and the musician would scribble it down on the notepad on the nightstand. _This is him...this is my Roger._ Mark smiled to himself, content.

Until the front door crashed open, causing both men to jump and turn towards the door. Since Mark had left the door open, they had an unobstructed view of April bouncing into the room, followed quickly by a woman in pleather pants and a bright pink shirt that fell somewhere on the fabric spectrum between a brassiere and a tube top. The newcomer had curls spilling over her shoulders, a wad of chewing gum in her mouth, and a bright smile on her face. Most disturbingly, in her hand was a duffel bag. April leaned over to the woman and whispered something in her ear, then caught sight of the two in Roger's room. Her eyes narrowed, and Mark turned to Roger, confused. "What's going on?"

The other man shrugged. "Dunno, must be that friend of hers. She's supposed to be nuts. Looks like it, too." The woman had thrown her bag on the floor, and was currently jumping up and down on the old rickety couch. April ran into the room, calling in a singsong voice, "Rog, honey, guess what! Mo's coming to live with us! Isn't that great?" She was beaming, looking incredibly pleased with herself, and perched on Roger's lap, kissing him as if to distract him.

Roger blinked. "She is? Why? Where's she gonna sleep?"

"In Mark's room, silly. It's the only other bed."

Mark started, eyes wide. "What? I'm not sharing a room with some strange woman I don't even know."

Roger murmured to April, "What the fuck is she doing here?"

April only smiled more brightly. "Well...she lost her lease, and she needed a place...and Mark has that extra bed in his room..."

"No, I don't." Mark interjected. "I have an extra bed frame. I don't know what the fuck Collins did with the other mattress."

April waved that aside. "You've still got room in there. She can sleep on the floor. It's better than the streets." She pouted at her boyfriend. "Please, Roger? Can she stay?"

_As if my opinion doesn't matter. She's only going to be sharing my room, after all. Don't bother asking what I think._

"Eh, why not?" Roger nudged Mark. "It's okay, right, Mark? You don't mind?"

Mark threw up his hands. "Not like it matters, but...what the hell. I guess we're a homeless shelter now."

Roger snorted. "If we weren't, you wouldn't be staying here, Marky. Or did you _already_ forget how I took you in?" He grinned, letting him know he meant it in good humor, and Mark grudgingly grinned in response. "Okay, fair enough. But I'm NOT sharing my bed," he grumbled.

"Fair enough!" April exclaimed, then yelled to the woman, "Mo! Put your stuff in the other room!"

The blonde squealed, then grabbed her duffel bag and burst through the door to Mark's room. Mark hurriedly followed her to make sure she didn't break anything. As he walked in, she had thrown her bag in the corner she seemed to have claimed for her own, and was looking at him prettily. "Which side do you want?"

_The whole room!_ "Uh...whatever you want, I guess." Mark scratched the back of his neck. "So, uh...what's your name, anyway?"

She grinned brilliantly – she was really quite pretty, he observed – and walked over to shake his hand. "Maureen Johnson." She struck a pose. "Performing artist."

Mark raised his eyebrows, but merely said, "Oh, well, that's cool. Where do you perform? Do you act, or sing, or..."

Maureen perched herself on the edge of his bed and tossed back her long, blonde hair over her shoulders. "Honey, I do it all. I even write my own material! Wanna see my latest piece?" She stood up without waiting for an answer, positively glowing with excitement, and struck a pose again. In a dreamy, trance-like voice, she began, "The year is nineteen nintey-nine, the date...apocalypse!" She fell to the floor in a boneless heap with a screech, and Mark jumped, startled. He rushed over to her and touched her shoulder, asking, "Are you okay?"

She looked up at him, annoyance clear in her eyes. "Would you ask Mozart if he was okay when he was composing?"

Mark blinked. "Uh...I guess not...I mean, I never really...that was part of the act?"

Maureen rolled her eyes. "Of course it was part of the act! You know," she stood up, straightening her clothing, "it was a huge hit when I did it in the park the other day."

"You...you perform in the park?"

She shrugged. "When there's nowhere better. I really like being outside, though. I once got kicked out of a kids' playground for some of my racier material." She winked at him, and he blushed. "But that's okay. They weren't truly appreciating me there, anyway. I need a place to cater to true artists, a place, where...where I can liberate the souls of those less creative than myself!" She spread her arms wide, huge grin on her face, and turned to him. "Don't you see? I'm like...like a..." She frowned, frusterated. "What's the word I'm looking for?"

He shrugged, and she sighed. "Hold on." She walked out of the room, then after a minute, back in. "Damn. April doesn't know, either." She looked over at her bag in the corner. "So...how should we work this? Where do you want me to sleep?"

He shrugged again. "Anywhere you want to is fine, really. Sorry there's not another bed..."

She stepped a little closer to him, brushing her hair gracefully out of her eyes. "It's okay. I just want to make sure I'm not getting in the way too much. What do you do, anyway?"

She seemed genuinely interested, and he smiled shyly. "I, uh, make movies." One of his hands gestured a bit awkwardly to his camera, sitting on the bed by his pillow.

Her eyes lit up, and for a second he was dazzled by the intensity of her smile. She gasped, "Really? Oh my god, April so didn't tell me that at all! What kind of movies? Are you looking for actresses?"

A bit flustered, he answered, "Uh, mostly independent-type stuff...you know, like what you see in arthouses? Hopefully, anyway. I've got plenty of screenplays, but it's hard to find someone who wants to produce them."

Her eyes widened further, and she grabbed his hands in excitement. "Then you have to produce them yourself! Make it happen! And I'll be your star!" That dazzling grin returned full-force, and he had to catch his breath. "Um...I guess so."

One of her long, sparkly-green fingernails was tracing his cheek, he observed. Her face was very close to his, and from this distance, he could observe that she was wearing very little makeup. That was good; girls who wore too much makeup had always seemed fake on the inside to him as well, like his sister. She leaned closer to him, until her lips nearly brushed over his, and he pulled away quickly. He mumbled, "I'm sorry...I just...it's not quite...I mean, I..."

She didn't look as insulted as he would have figured; a little frighteningly, she looked more determined than upset. She laid her hand on his shoulder, and asked softly, "It's just what? You don't have a girlfriend, do you?"

He shook his head numbly, and she pressed on, "You think I'm hot, don't you?"

He blushed beet-red, but nodded, embarrassed. _I...I do think she's hot. What's wrong with me? If I'm in love with Roger, doesn't that make me gay? Then why am I attracted to her?_

She attempted to pull him close for a kiss, but he broke out of her grasp and stuttered, "I...I didn't...I'm sorry, I just...I can't. Not now." He looked down at the ground, feeling like he was eight years old and talking to Rebecca Gershman for the first time.

Maureen pouted a tiny bit, then shrugged. "Oh, well. Can't blame a girl for trying, right?" She smiled again, but he could still see the gleam of determination in her eyes. Without meaning to, he blurted out, "Why do you want me?"

Her smile widened. "Why wouldn't I? You're cute, you're talented, and April says you're really sweet." She lowered her voice just a little bit. "She also says you're good in bed."

He let out a strangled noise that sounded like something between a yelp and a gasp, and she laughed. "Don't worry, sweetie, I'm not going to pounce on you." She folded her hands. "I'm a good girl. See? Retracting my claws." Without further ado, she turned around and started unpacking. "So, the right side is mine? Good? Good."

_Oh, yeah. Living with her is going to be interesting._

_

* * *

_  
If you want me to write more, you must review! It's the only way I know my writing isn't being sucked into some cyber black hole! Cheers, loves.


	12. Pack Your Bags, You Can't Stay, Love

Erm. I bet you thought I was dead, didn't you? Admit it, you entertained the notion that I was mouldering in the ground...but NO! Just California. Happily, I've been rescued by start-of-term, so I'm alive again! Huh. Two nights in my dorm, and I've been bitten by the writing bug. I love this building.

I DID promise that I wouldn't let this story die...however, I never said anything about letting it slip into a coma for a while. So now, I bring you: CHAPTER TWELVE! Hopefully, all the better for the eons of reflecting I've done on it. Plus, I've decided that I'm not going to rule out boyporn...whatever happens, happens. Enjoy, children.

Dedicated to my beautiful Chris, the love of my life. Is it ironic that I met her through ANSWER YOUR REVIEWERS! You might just fall in love with them!

* * *

POP

Mark shut his eyes more tightly.

POP

Mark pulled the pillow over his head.

POP

Mark rolled over on his side, bringing him startlingly close to Maureen. Exasperated, he snapped, "Would you mind?"

Her eyes flew open, as if she'd never entertained the idea that using her nails to puncture every bubble in a sheet of bubblewrap might not be the most soothing noise for her new roommate to fall asleep to. "Oh...sorry." She gave him a coy smile, tucking the material behind her.

He nodded his acceptance of her apology, then turned back over. Before he'd counted more than one sheep, he felt a long fingernail run across his shoulder and down his arm. It didn't startle him; it had the first time she'd done it, more than a week ago, but now he resigned himself to a sigh. "Maureen," he began patiently, "I am trying to sleep."

He could feel her pout, invisible though it was to the back of his head. "But Mark, I was just..."

Mark swallowed. Every time she came onto him, it was a little harder to resist. To be honest, it wasn't like he had a good reason to turn her down; she was gorgeous, available, and for some reason, interested in him. He could count on one hand, using no fingers, the amount of times that had happened to him. But still, something held him back. It wasn't that he wasn't attracted to her. Far from it, in fact. The way she said his name, for example, was guaranteed to embarrass him if he wasn't wearing loose enough pants. And when she ran her fingernails down the side of his arm like that...he shivered and pulled his blanket more tightly around himself. _I want her...and she wants me. Why am I stopping myself?_

Why, indeed. That question had been running through his head since the day she moved in. It wasn't as if he were being unfaithful to anyone, after all. The most interest the one he wanted had ever shown in him, after all, was a one-sided gropefest when he was trashed off his ass. Certainly nothing to be unfaithful to there. And maybe it would get April off his case. She'd been completely unbearable since Maureen had evidentally come pouting to her that she wasn't getting any from her shy roommate. Mark curled farther into himself. Despite everything he'd seen and done since coming to the city, he still balked at the notion of sleeping with Maureen to get April off his back, or for any other reason other than pleasure...or love. Deep down, he still believed that sex should at least have some caring attatched to it.

_Unlike some people_, he thought bitterly. He could hear, and he was sure Maureen could too, the sounds of Roger and April, extra-noisy from being extra-high. Roger's band had had a gig the previous night. Apparently there was some sort of talent scout record label person there (Mark didn't know much how the music industry worked), and he'd liked what he heard. What this meant for his roommate, Mark had no idea. He only knew it was good enough news to be worthy of an all-day smack/fuck fest with April, after an all-night party with his bandmates.

He was jolted from his mind's ramblings by those fingernails making their way to his hair, lightly tracing his scalp. Mark shuddered, catching himself just before leaning back into that hand. He could see Maureen's smile through his closed eyelids, heard the sound of fabric brushing against fabric as she scooted closer to him. He pulled himself farther away, huddled almost against the wall.

Her hand dropped, and he heard her sigh. It was the most honest, theatric-free sigh he'd ever heard from her. When she spoke, she sounded almost wistful. "Mark...why don't you want me?"

Something about the tone in her voice compelled an answer from her unwilling roommate. He turned over, swallowing when her large eyes caught his. "It's...it's not you, believe me. I just..." he struggled for words, not wanting to offend her. "This whole, I don't know, this...isn't really my thing."

She frowned slightly. "That's not what April said. She said you were more than willing to do the whole" she accompanied her words with air quotes, "thing. So it's not you."

_I hate gossipping women. I'm beginning to think my life would be easier if I never had sex at all._ He could feel a small headache coming on; Maureen seemed to do that to him. He sighed, looking at her pleadingly. "Maureen...please, not now. I'm tired, I have a headache, and I really want to sleep."

Without a word, she leaned forward and kissed him deeply, pulling his body easily up to hers, tongue ravishing his mouth. Mark struggled like a fish trying to evade a highly invasive hook, amazed at how adept she was at using her tongue. Which led him to very, very dirty thoughts, which he mentally slapped himself for thinking. In a corner of his brain that wasn't paralyzed by a horrifying combination of shock and lust, he quietly reflected that Maureen would probably welcome the dirtiest of such thoughts. Gradually, Mark started to relax, remembering how to kiss without being forced into it. His hand went softly to her hair, almost feeling lost in its voluminous curls. His tongue slowly emerged, dancing with hers, and she perked up immediately in his arms. She backed off the tiniest bit, allowing him to kiss her however he wanted. Just as he leaned forward, wrapping his other arm around her shoulders, there was a sharp crack of male laughter from the other room.

Mark's eyes went wide, suddenly panicking at the thought of Roger walking in and seeing him with Maureen. It was a totally irrational fear, half his mind admitted, but it terrified him nonetheless into pushing the girl away. She blinked up at him, confused. "What's wrong? I thought you were enjoying that."

"I...I don't know, I was, but I just...look, can you, um...oh, fuck it." Mark jumped to his feet, blushing like a scared virgin, and ran out of the room, hands in his pockets.

Alone, Maureen frowned and told the recently shut door, "Well, that didn't go as planned."

* * *

Mark nearly ran down the stairs, setting a brisk pace down the filthy street. Past the cafe, past the awful-smelling subway station. Head down, he barely noticed when someone called his name.

"Mark! Where the hell are you going?" The voice was amused. He looked up, and April was standing in front of him. The frown he'd been wearing deepened. "April? I thought you were in the loft."

She shrugged. "Nah, I had to run out for condoms." She shook the box in her hand, and he rolled his eyes. "Roger's amusing himself by getting Benny high until I get back. At least, he said he was. What are you doing out here, anyway? Maureen said---" She bit her lip, evidentally feeling she had said too much.

"Oh, she did, did she?" Mark asked bitterly. "What, did she say that today was the day? Fuck, why doesn't she just pick up some guy in a bar, if she's so fucking horny?"

April's eyes widened. She'd never heard an outburst from the usually reserved filmmaker like that. "I don't know...maybe she wants you."

Mark rolled his eyes. "Because I'm the kind of guy all the girls go crazy for?"

April frowned. If Mark kept turning Maureen down, her friend would get bored, and April's plan would be ruined. "Hey, I did. Why aren't you all over her? She's hot!"

Mark glared at her. "What do you care, anyway?"

April sighed. "Fuck, Mark. Only you could sense some sort of conspiracy theory in a hot girl wanting to sleep with you." She pushed past him on her way, muttering, "I guess you really are a fag."

She was abruptly spun around by the most forceful grip she'd ever seen Mark take on anything. His face was white, his eyes frighteningly wide. He looked truly terrified. "Wh-what did you say?"

"Come off it, Mark," she snapped. "You want to know why Maureen's hitting on you? Because I asked her to, okay?" She wrenched her shoulder free, and he gave no resistance. She continued, voice thick with emotion, "It's not like I can't see you drooling all over him, you know! It's pathetic! You're pathetic!" She shoved his shoulder, all the anger and fear she'd been holding in since realizing what his adoration of her boyfriend was all about. "Like he'd ever want you, anyway!"

Mark didn't shrink from her words, didn't run away like she'd expected, half-hoped he would. There was a hurt turning to rage in his eyes, and a steely tone when he finally spoke. "Like you know the first thing about him. Like you've ever been there for him when he needed anything." He was stepping closer to her with each sentence, his voice rising. "Like you're not using him just for drugs and sex! _Like you mean ANYTHING to him!_"

April aimed a hard slap at his face, but he caught her wrist. His eyes were blazing now, his face inches from hers. "I have done _nothing _to him, haven't made a _single_ move, have never taken advantage of him when he's drunk or high. I've never called the cops on you two, never tried to take your shit away, never said ANYTHING any of the times you two have called me to come pick you up at two in the morning, stoned off your asses in Jersey or wherever the fuck. No!" he continued, squeezing her wrist and ignoring her as she tried to speak. "I took it, I cleaned up after you, I covered when your mother called. So, April, what the hell gives you the right to talk to me like that? Call me a fag, call me pathetic?" There were angry tears in his eyes, and his voice was hoarse with emotion. "I _know_ you two laugh at me, when you're alone. I can hear you." He released her wrist, swallowing hard against the tears. His eyes, full of pain and longing, bore into hers as he practically whispered, "You have no fucking right."

He lowered his eyes, and all of a sudden he was Mark again to her eyes, little shy Mark again. He had seemed to grow at least a foot when he was angry, but now it looked as though he had shrunk an extra foot to make up for it. He looked fragile and vulnerable, and it seemed impossible that he'd been yelling just a moment ago. It seemed doubly impossible that she'd said awful things to this boy who looked like he'd just had his beloved cat run over in front of the middle school. She made a tentative gesture of apology toward him, but he flinched away. "Mark," she said softly, "I'm sorry. I just..."

He shrank back from her, arms wrapped around his chest. "Did...did I hurt you?" he whispered.

She shook her head, the lump in her throat getting worse. "No..you didn't hurt me. Mark, I'm sorry I called you those things. I just...I see you looking at him, and I go crazy."

Mark looked up at her with eyes that seemed somewhat haunted. "Why? I'd never have the balls to try anything," he said bitterly.

"Because he's all I've got." There were tears in her own eyes now, and she furiously scrubbed at them with the back of her hand. _Fuck, I'm not a hysterical girl. I can control myself!_ "I was so lonely before I met him, Mark. He makes me feel safe, and special. He's so good to me." Her eyes were pleading. "Please...just go on one date with Maureen. Please. I promise, I'll never ask you for anything again. Just one date."

Mark's voice was defeated as he said softly, "I thought you said I was a fag."

"Hey, I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean for it to come out that way." Actually, she had, but regret is much like wishing it hadn't happened, she supposed.

His shoulders slumped. "I don't know...I guess. Whatever." He turned to walk back to the loft, barely hearing her call, "Thank you!"

* * *

Reviews are the ONLY reason I've kept this going, you know! Well, not really. I really like writing it. I promise if I get more than ten reviews asking for it, there'll be some sort of slashy goodness in the next chapter! How's that for incentive, eh? 


	13. I Should Have Told You

See? I'm a good girl, and I can update if I want to! True to my word, since I got ten reviews for my last chapter, there is slash in this chapter! Maybe not as much as all of you wanted, but it's HERE, dammit. See? I really am a whore for reviews. Keep that in mind, kiddies...

I'd like to point out a few things; my room is Paris, Renee is a funny drunk, I had a good dream last night, and three birthdays in two weeks makes my bank account cry.

Dedicated to Evie with her insane reviews, Renee's Camel with No Name, and my beloved, Chris.

* * *

Mark was halfway home before he realized there was nothing for him there. April wouldn't want to see him, Roger would be high, and he didn't want to see Maureen. Uncertain, his steps turned away from his path. His footsteps were slow, approaching plodding speed. The streets were gray, the buildings shabby, the sky nighttime-cloudy. He mentally searched for the literary term he was trying to recall..._pathetic fallacy, that was it._ When the weather mirrored your moods.

Images and thoughts flashed through his head, none staying long enough to make a clear impact. Every fleeting notion revolved somehow around three central figures; Roger, April, Maureen. Roger, April, Maureen. One he'd slept with, one he desired, and one it seemed the other two wanted him to want. _My mother got it wrong...it wasn't the thugs in the city I should have been afraid of. The thugs are kind compared to my friends. _For the first time since he'd stepped off the train, Mark contemplated returning to Scarsdale, or at least Brown. What good was torturing himself, anyway? His screenplays didn't sell, his hot water didn't work, he couldn't hold down a job (literally) to save his life, and he was entangled in some odd sort of love trapezoid.

Unbidden, his mother's voice rose in his mind. _"Why didn't you listen to me the first time? I'm only looking out for my little boy. I knew the city was too much for you. Didn't I tell you?"_ And as always, soup would follow.

But he was a big boy. He could make his own damn soup. And after soup, there would be a lecture from his father, a re-entry form to the Brown Medical Program, a "gentle" scolding from his mother, and he'd be sent off to bed by ten pm. Or...he could go back to the loft and face his problems. Face Roger. April could go to hell for all he was concerned; if he stayed, it would have nothing to do with her or her pleas.

He wasn't alone on the playground, he suddenly realized. A woman and her daughter, who must have been three years old or younger, had stolen into his sanctuary. It might have been the East Village well past evening and into night, but there were still people simply enjoying themselves. Like...like that flower, growing between the cracks of the sidewalks that every single up-and-coming filmmaker seemed to shoot. A symbol for struggle in diversity, or something. Or was it adversity?

Whatever it was, he was starting to feel cold. Not that it was an unusual experience for him, skinny as he was during a New York winter, but still uncomfortable. He got to his feet slowly, facing the loft at last. It wasn't as if his problems were going to fix themselves at the park, after all. Plus...he thought it was time to let the mother and daughter have their swing for themselves.

* * *

Roger was, fortunately, not fucking April when Mark entered the loft. That would probably have sent him either to his room in an angry fit, or right back out the door. Instead, the musician was perched on the table, plucking out the chords of the song he'd played for Mark the day Maureen had moved in. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and the quiet strummings where the only sounds besides the constant hustle and bustle of the traffic many flights below. He looked up briefly as Mark shut the door behind him, and smiled at his roommate. "Hey, c'mere. I think I figured out the transition."

Mark walked slowly to his side, expecting April to pop out of their room and skewer him for being close to Roger. Fortunately, his cross of the room was uneventful. He hopped up onto the table next to his friend, watching closely as those strong fingers glided gracefully over the strings, listening to an explanation that didn't make any sense to him. Something about G minor and a diminished sixth, but he never could figure out music theory. That was Roger's arena, not his. When the song was over, he asked quietly, "Where are the girls?"

Roger shrugged, suddenly looking a little uncomfortable. "They went out. I...asked them to."

Mark's head snapped around sharply at those words, and Roger sighed. "Look, Mark, I had a talk with April while you were out."

_Oh, God. What did she...I know exactly what she told him._ "Oh," he said softly, waiting to see whether Roger would throw him out right then, or give him time to pack. Somewhere in his mind he knew that was an irrational fear, given that Roger had many gay friends and was quite accustomed to people being attracted to him (in his own words, he was a fucking rock star), but being rational wasn't on his to-do list for the day. "And?"

Roger swallowed, hard. "Look, Mark, I just...I don't know what to say, here. I mean, April's a first-class bitch, I don't even know if she's telling the truth." His downcast eyes seemed to plead with Mark to fill in the blanks without making him explain himself.

But Mark didn't want to give him the easy way out. He didn't want to fill in the blanks. Whatever sort of rejection Roger was working himself up for, Mark wished he'd either get it over with or back down. "Telling the truth about what?" He heard all of Roger's unspoken replies clearly in his mind: _that you yelled at her; that you're a fag; that you admitted to being in love with me; that you've been secretly gay all this time._

Roger didn't say any of those things. He raised his head to look into Mark's eyes almost pleadingly. Mark remembered the first time they'd ever met, in the Life Cafe; remembered the generosity of his open invitation of a place to stay; remembered his encouragements about his filmmaking, his interviews, his auditions; remembered the day he'd cornered Mark on his bed, forced him down and kissed him roughly.

Suddenly, Mark closed the few inches between them, pressing their lips firmly together. He waited for Roger to shove him away, to curse, even to hit him, but none of these things happened. Instead, Roger's lips met his softly, almost hesitantly. Mark's hand slowly moved to the side of Roger's face, brushing over the stubble, feeling his strong jawline. Absently, he wondered if Roger had ever kissed a man when he was sober before. Then he realized that it didn't matter, nothing mattered when Roger was kissing him like that. Roger had wrapped his strong arms around Mark's upper body, pulling him close, and Mark had to fight back a whimper in his throat. He deepened the kiss, encouraged, but faltered as Roger abruptly pulled away.

"Roger," he whispered, hoping Roger wasn't about to strike out at him. The musician's face was still very close to his, close enough that Mark could feel Roger's labored breathing against his upper lip. Mark swallowed, praying he hadn't just ruined a wonderful friendship.

"Mark, I..." Roger faltered, finally meeting Mark's eyes. There was a moment of silence, in which neither man said anything, and then they were kissing again, tongues warring for dominance, a frenzied moan escaping from Mark's throat. Roger's arms around him, now a hand tangling in his hair, were driving him insane. He was more aroused than he could ever remember being, feeling the man he had desired for months pressed up against him, kissing him, holding him tightly. Then they were standing, bodies crushed roughly together in Roger's strong grasp, and Mark groaned against Roger's tongue as he felt his roommate's arousal against his own. The noise seemed to trigger some sort of reaction in Roger, and before Mark knew it he was standing on his own as the other man was leaning on the table, eyes wide.

"Mark...I'm sorry, I didn't mean..." He ran his fingers furiously through his hair, swallowing hard. "I shouldn't have done that."

Wounded, confused, Mark asked incredulously, "Why not? We both wanted it, didn't we?" _And I want more...so much more..._

Roger was shaking his head then, a sight Mark hadn't wanted to see, not from him, not at a time like this. He was silent, and Mark took that as an opportunity. "Roger, I...God, I wasn't going to tell you, I wasn't. Never. But...but is it really so bad? I want you, so much. More than I've ever wanted anyone. Roger, I lo--"

"I think you should go out with Maureen." Roger's voice, hoarse but crisp, cut through his attempted declaration with the finality of a door slamming shut.

"You...you do?"

Roger refused to meet his eyes. "Yeah, I do." He jumped back on the table, fingers fiddling with the pegs on his guitar. "Go on. You'll have fun."

Mark was at a complete loss for words. "I'll have fun? That's all you can say?"

"Look, Mark, I don't know what you want me to say. You kissed me, remember?" Roger nearly slammed his guitar down on the table, jumped off, and walked quickly to his room. Mark heard him mutter just before he closed the door, "I need a hit."

And just like that, he was gone. He had left Mark standing, lost and hurt, in the middle of the living room. He could still feel the imprints of Roger's large hands on his back, in his hair, still feel the coarse hairs on his chin scraping over his own skin. _Why the hell did I kiss him? I just had to go and ruin things, didn't I? God forbid we could have stayed friends._

He walked slowly to the couch and sank into it, as much as one could sink into that abomination. The worst thing was how right it had felt, there in Roger's arms, with Roger's mouth on his, Roger's smell, touch, taste surrounding him. He hugged himself, wondering why he was suddenly so bereft. It wasn't as if he'd lost anything he'd had, anyway.

He stayed that way until the front door opened. He hugged himself tighter, not wanting to face Maureen or especially April just yet. He was therefore surprised when a deep voice said with a sigh of relief, "Hey, there's no place like home."

Mark shot out of the couch, overjoyed, and nearly tackled Collins to the ground. "Collins! You're home!"

The taller man grinned, flashing white teeth at his smaller roommate. "So they told me at Customs, yeah. How've you been, man?" He grabbed Mark in one of his trademark hugs, lifting him at least an inch off the ground. Mark gave him the biggest smile in months, hugging him back fiercely.

"I missed you! Why didn't you call? You were in _jail_? In _Greece?_"

Collins laughed. "Yeah, I had a minor...incident. Don't worry, it was all in good fun."

"But what did you do?"

Collins pursed his lips slightly. "Let's just say...I was reminding them that no matter how advanced we've become, you can tell right away there aren't any black statues in the Parthenon."

Mark blinked, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

But the other man only grinned at him. "I'll tell you when you're older. Hey, where's Roger?"

The smile fell from Mark's face as he thought of their "other" roommate. "Uh...he's in his room, but..." He panicked as Collins strode over to the musician's door, and spluttered, "Collins, no, don't go in there!"

Collins gave him an odd look and pushed open the door. "Hey, guess who's--"

Mark could tell by the look on his face that he had witnessed approximately the same sight he himself had a month or so prior; Roger, a length of steel in his arm. Or perhaps the needle was lying by the bed. Or just being filled. Whatever Collins could see, his reaction hadn't been to close the door as Mark's had been. His face hardened, grin vanishing instantly. The door hung adjar as the tall man walked angrily into the room, and Mark hurried over so he could see what was going on.

Roger was, sure enough, just dropping the needle, attempting to cover his arm with the blanket. "Hey, Collins...when did you--" was all he managed to get out before the other man had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt.

"_Drugs_?" Collins hissed, close to his face. "You're doing _heroin _now? God, Roger, I thought you were smarter than that!" His face was contorted in pure rage, and even Roger, high as he was, looked afraid.

"Collins...man, what's wrong with you?" His eyes weren't focusing too well, rather diminishing his indignation. "Since when've you been so...ya know..." His words were a bit slurred, and he giggled, a sound Mark always winced to hear.

Collins released his collar, and Roger fell back to the bed, euphoria written all over his face. The prodigal roommate turned around, looking crushed, and met Mark's eyes. Mark, about to apologize for Roger, about to stammer about how he was going to tell Collins as soon as he got home, swallowed his words, seeing something he didn't expect.

There was fear in Collins' eyes.

"Mark," he said quietly, "we need to talk."

* * *

Wow, I quite like this chapter. Stuff actually happens! I've been getting better at that lately, I think. Don't think so? Review, tell me! If you want REAL boyporn, I'll need some more reviews...I did mention that I'm a whore for them, yes? Good!

PS: Edited because of a technical detail. Thanks for your help, baby!


	14. They call it a choice, I call it a curse

Written listening to my new "Torch Songs" playlist. Lots of "Without You," "On My Own," "I Know Him So Well," even "Far From the Home I Love". Good stuff, man. Also, everyone on my floor (except Renee, whom I adore) forgot my birthday. Hmm. Well, fuck them. I have my reviewers, right? -sobs-

Many, many thanks for the people who continue to love and review this story, even as Chemistry and French eat my life! Would it be altogether too much trouble for one of you to kill those classes for me, please? Damn foreign language and lab science requirements...Oh, and if anyone knows which major I should pick, feel free to let me know!

In all honesty, it really is the overwhelming support I've gotten from you all that's kept this being posted. Doesn't it make you wanna review? Yep, thought so. XD

Dedicated to my girl. God willing and the creek don't rise (shut up, that's what my mom used to say), we'll be together soon, baby. Also dedicated to the hours I spent screaming at this chapter, "FINISH YOURSELF ALREADY!"

* * *

Mark was puzzled as Collins led him into his old room, suddenly feeling as if he was imposing. "You can have your room back...I just, while you were gone, and Roger and April--" 

"I don't care about the room, Mark." Collins; voice was somehow different than Mark had ever remembered it. For the first time, it was easy to believe that Collins actually was ten years older than he was, and he wasn't sure he liked the change. His eyes, too, were much older than Mark remembered them. It had been two months since his mysterious disappearance on Mark's birthday, with exactly one phone call in that entire time. The older man sat down on the bed, head bowed. "Mark...sit down, man, I need to talk to you."

Worried now, the smaller man took a seat. "Collins...what is it? Why did you go?" Unspoken was the somewhat more selfish thought, _why did you go when I needed you?_ Of course his roommate couldn't have known about Mark's crises, and something had obviously been important enough for him to skip the country all of a sudden. Then again, Roger said he used to do things like this all the time.

Collins sighed, rubbing his hand over his head. He had a definite look of a man about to deliver very bad news, and Mark started to feel very apprehensive about being on the receiving end of it. He was so worried that he almost missed Collins saying almost inaudibly, "I'm sick."

Mark blinked. "What do you mean, you're sick? Like a flu? I have tea..."

"Not that kind of sick. I...you remember on your birthday, when I got that phone call?"

Mark nodded, confused as all hell. "Yeah, you cancelled on us, then skipped off to Greece."

"It was the clinic, Mark. I'm HIV positive." Collins looked up to meet his eyes, and Mark swallowed hard. Not at the news, because he had never heard of HIV, but of the fear he saw in the other man's eyes.

As long as he'd known Collins, the man had been afraid of nothing, not cops or laws or disapproval. Whatever this thing was, it had to be bad to scare the strong, confident man. "What...what's HIV? Is it like cancer?"

Collins grimaced. "In a way. You've heard of AIDS, right?"

Mark could only nod dumbly, unable to link what he'd heard on the news at his mother's described as a 'gay cancer' to the man in front of him. While he knew Collins was gay, he wasn't one of 'those' gay men his mother had always...why the hell was he thinking about his mother when Collins, oh, god... "I heard it was bad."

"Yeah, well, you heard right. HIV is what comes before AIDS. And I've got it." Collins took a deep breath, closing his eyes tightly. "I'm dying, Mark."

Mark shook his head violently, a knee-jerk reaction. "No, no. I've never even heard of HIV, you can't be dying." His stomach, it felt, had tied itself into a knot, tighter by the minute. "You can't, you're the strong one."

Collins grabbed Mark's shoulders. "Mark, calm down. You're getting hysterical. It's not an overnight think, okay? I'll be here for years."

Mark looked into his eyes, frightened to his core to ask how many. Although he thought he probably knew the answer, it still wasn't one he wanted to hear. Also, Collins; hands on his shoulders were somewhat scaring him, not knowing exactly how AIDS could be contracted. Through touch? Breath? Spit? "So," he whispered, "so you left? You went to Greece? Why?"

Collins shrugged, taking his seat back on the bed. "I guess I wanted to see some stuff while I still had time," he said softly, fingers toying with the frayed edge of the blanket. "Maybe...maybe figure some things out. God, life, death."

"Did you?"

Collins laughed then, and it didn't sound as hollow as Mark had honestly expected it to. "Nah. I don't think people should even try. You know everyone's wrong in the end." He gave Mark a sardonic look. "Any god that a human being could figure out can't be very powerful."

"Not even someone like you?"

The other man looked up sharply. "Why, because I'm dying?"

Mark's eyes went wide, and he spluttered, "No! No, no, because...I mean, because you're brilliant. That's all I mean!" Just to hear Collins say 'I'm dying' so casually made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, sending a shiver down his spine.

Collins sighed. "Sorry. I just...it's been a crazy couple of months, you know?"

"Yeah, I figured," Mark replied softly. He was starting to get a bit antsy about being in such close proximity with the man he considered one of his closest friends, and swallowed hard, trying not to let it show. Collins, ever-observant, said quietly, "You can't get it like this, Mark."

Mark jumped, surprised. "No, I wasn't...I was just--"

Collins cut him off, for which he was grateful. "You don't have to apologize. I should have told you. You can only get it through bodily fluids, Mark. And not saliva, either. So unless we have sex or share needles, you'll be safe from me." His face had darkened at the mention of needles, and Mark knew he was thinking of the scene he'd witnessed earlier in Roger's room. "How long?" he asked softly.

Mark shrugged. "He said about...a couple months before I moved in."

Collins' eyebrows raised. "Wow. I had no idea it was that long. 'Course, I'd already moved out by then, and I haven't been back all that long. Still..." he shook his head. "He should be smarter than that. He should know." His voice was almost a whisper as he said, "He should know not to risk it."

Mark was hesitant to ask, but at the same time, felt a burning desire to know. And Collins had never yet been angry at him for asking a question... "Collins?"

"Hmm?"

"How did you, uh...get it?"

Collins smiled wryly. "You mean who did I get it from?" At Mark's blush-accompanied nod, he shrugged. "I honestly don't know. I just went in for a routine check-up—every six months, if you're sexually active," he paused to warn Mark. "It's just safer that way. Anyway...I had it." He snorted. "I'm careful, but those things are only ninety-seven percent effective, and they've broken a time or two. It could be a hundred different guys," he said helplessly. "I just...I just hope they get checked, too. There's no way I could find all of them and tell them. I didn't even know half their names." He took a deep breath, composing himself. He forced a little half-smile for Mark's sake, which the younger man did not return.

"Collins..." What was there to say, really? He could say he was sorry. He wished it hadn't happened. He was scared, lonely, and devastated. He knew, though, that Collins was the kind of person who both hated hearing those things and knew them intrinsically. He could see in the man's very posture that pity was the last thing he wanted or needed. "It's been...different here without you."

"I'll just bet it has," the other man replied dryly. "Roger hasn't done anything too stupid while he was high, has he?"

Mark snorted. _Besides pin me to the bed and kiss me senseless? _"Nah, not really." He sighed. Collins would find out sooner or later, living with them again. "I, uh, did something stupid, though."

Collins frowned at him. "You? What?"

Mark swallowed, uncomfortable. "I, uh, told him something. Right before you came in. That was why he was, uh..." He pantomimed shooting up, unwilling to say the words.

"What? What did you tell him?" Collins' face was curious, unaccusatory, and Mark blushed.

"I, uh, told him...well, I didn't really tell him anything. I kind of...kissed him," he muttered so low that he was nearly inaudible. Unfortunately, nearly wasn't quite enough, and Collins heard exactly what he said.

"You kissed him? What, on purpose?"

Mark nodded dumbly, eyes fixed intently on the fraying edges of his scarf. He heard Collins sigh deeply, and raised his head just a fraction of an inch higher to see the man bow his head. "Mark," he began kindly, "Roger's not--"

"I know, okay?" Mark snapped, surprising even himself with the vehemence of his tone. "I know, he's not gay, he likes girls, he likes April. I know." His voice was soft as he finished, soft and defeated.

"That's not what I was going to say," Collins said unexpectedly.

Mark looked up, surprised. "It isn't?"

"No. I was going to say that Roger's not the kind of guy who'd be good for you. He's the live fast, die young type." There was a hollow acceptance in his eyes, as if he recognized the failing in himself. "Trust me, you don't want to get mixed up in his crowd."

Mark snorted bitterly. "As if he'd want me anyway."

He expected consolation, maybe a pat on the back. Instead, Collins' expression changed to one just slightly more humorous. "Well...you never quite know with Roger."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well...let's just say I have it on good authority—and by that I mean my own—that Roger isn't the one to discount any sort of...experience."

Mark blinked. "Collins, what do you mean?"

The older man grinned just slightly. "We had sex, a while before you moved in."

Mark's jaw fell to the floor, and he spluttered, "You...you what with...and Roger, he...what?"

"I told you, he likes experiences, and he likes to feel good. Fucking hedonist, if you ask me. And this is coming from a partially reformed hedonist, mind you."

"But...but when? How?" Mark was slowly rearranging the pieces of his life that had been dislocated, as if someone had shaken apart a puzzle and the bits no longer fit where they had originally.

Collins chuckled, and leaned back on his elbows. "It was about a year ago, I guess. We were just chilling, watching a movie, drinking some beer, smoking some weed. Have you tried weed?" Mark shook his head in the negative, and Collins shrugged. "Yeah, well, it can make you really fucking horny. So, Roger starts talking about how he really wants to get laid. I mention casually that it was too bad he wasn't gay, and he said--"

"Let me guess. He said he's a fucking rock star."

Collins blinked. "How did you know?"

Mark shrugged. "Call it a lucky guess."

Collins gave him a look, but continued. "Anyway, he said he's a fucking rock star, and he kissed me." He shrugged. "He's not exactly my type, but far be it from me to turn down a hot guy trying to get into my pants." A shadow crossed his face for a moment, and he added quietly, "Well, back then, anyway."

Still trying to wrap his mind around what he had just heard, Mark blinked several times. "So...you fucked him?"

Collins stretched languidly. "Yeah, I did." He gave Mark a pointed look. "It wasn't his first time, either. I don't know if he's ever had a relationship with a guy, but he's definitely fucked them before. _Trust_ me." He raised his eyebrows on the last sentence lasciviously, and Mark blushed bright crimson.

"Uh...oh," he choked out, not sure what other response could be mustered in response to that.

"But I still don't think you should get involved with him, Mark. He's just...not that kind of a guy. He wouldn't make you happy."

"It doesn't matter anyway," Mark responded bitterly. "He doesn't want me. I told him how I felt, and he told me to ask Maureen out. He kissed me back, Collins!" The confusion and pain he felt were evident in the blond boy's eyes as he looked desperately up at his wiser friend.

The older man frowned. "Wait. So you kissed him, he kissed you back, you told him how you felt, and he told you to ask Maureen out?"

"Yes!"

Collins sighed. "Mark...I don't think there's any way for this to be good for you. Besides, is he still with that April chick?"

Mark's face darkened at the mention of the redhead. "Yeah," he muttered, "he's still with her." Collins didn't respond, merely gave him a look that seemed to say, 'well, then?' "It's true," he said quietly. "He's the worst thing in the world for me. He drinks, he smokes, he does drugs, he fucks around, he's not even fucking interested in me—why the hell am I even interested in him? I've never been into guys before! I've fucked girls!" Helplessly, he sagged back against Collins, who put a comforting arm around him.

"Mark...sometimes it works like that. And the word, by the way, is bi. You can like both."

Mark shook his head. "I don't think I do, though. Not anymore."

"So you only like guys?" Collins was skeptical, having seen the way Mark had looked at some girls in the past, and having never seen him glance twice at another man.

The young man sighed. "No. I only like Roger. Collins...I think I love him."

Neither man noticed a small gasp from behind the partition separating Roger and Collins' rooms. Understandably, neither of them peered through the small hole in the wall to see Maureen's wide eyes, either.

* * *

God, I never thought I'd write a cliffhanger. I know, there's a disturbing lack of slash in this chapter, but COME ON! It's HARD to get them in bed together! -sigh- Maybe if I had some more reviews, I could find a way. Hmm. 


	15. Let no fool kiss you and no kiss foolyou

Soo...PLEASE don't kill me for taking so long to update! School has eaten my soul. I've dropped out of Chem, I'm practically failing French, and I'm just coming out of a bout of food poisoning. Seriously. Damn bedrest...how about chair rest? That's what we're going for now.

How about I LOVE how many people have reviewed this thing:sends mad huggles to all reviewers: You guys are utterly fantastic!

I'd also like to point out that "The One That Got Away" by Adam Pascal just came on my iTunes shuffle, and I had a "WTF, country?" moment.

Speaking of Adam...OMGRENTMOVIE! But I shall say no more. Because then I'll blather. But OMGHOTNESS. That is all.

Dedicated to Adam's hair.

* * *

April hugged her arms more tightly around herself, wondering when Roger was going to come get her after he'd had his little 'talk' with Mark about keeping his eyes on his camera and his tongue back in his mouth. She had always known that people would drool over her boyfriend if she dated someone as hot as Roger, but she hadn't expected that she'd have to live with the drooler. She shivered a little, wishing that she had brought her jacket.

Roger had just wanted to let Mark easily, he told her. Confront the problem before it got worse. Well, if Roger was anything, it was confrontational, she thought a little bitterly. They'd had a screaming match when she'd come home earlier, shaken from her talk with Mark on the sidewalk, and she had been half-afraid he would hit her. He never had before, but she couldn't deny that his eyes flickered rather frighteningly sometimes when they were fighting. He'd thrown things at the floor, at the walls, even hit the walls hard enough to dent them, but never her. Well, not yet, anyway. She wondered absently if he'd ever hurt Mark. Well, aside from the emotional, of course.

So maybe she shouldn't have begun their conversation by screaming, "I fucking told you he was in love with you, you fucking asshole!" but that really didn't give him any right to call her a whore. And yes, some of the things she had said about Mark were probably over the line, but what he had said to her earlier had stung her, implying that she had less of a right to Roger, if there was such a thing, than she did. She was his girlfriend, for fuck's sake.

She looked around, sitting down on a curbside bench. Maureen had run off to get a pack of smokes, she had said, and should be meeting her soon. Frowning, she checked her watch. She'd been getting cigarettes for twenty minutes, and April could see their favorite convenience store from where she sat. Quickly she crossed the street and asked the clerk if he'd seen her—Mo was pretty memorable even at the worst of times, she thought sardonically—and was only a little surprised by his answer in the negative.

A little worried now, she thanked the man and headed home, hoping Roger had finished what he had to say. She hadn't gotten more than ten steps, however, before she was accosted by a highly incensed flurry of curls and leather.

"What the FUCK, April!" the whirlwind yelled, hair flying in her face, grabbing the other girl by the shoulder. "You fucking lied to me!"

"What are you talking about? Get off me!" April wrenched her arm free, backing up a few paces. From her vantage point, she could see that Maureen didn't only look angry, her eyes were hurt and a little confused.

"You told me," Maureen began, voice tight and angry, "that he was in love with you! You, April, not ROGER!"

Understanding flickered. "Oh...Mark?" It had seemed like the simplest idea at the time; she and Maureen had played wing for the other a dozen times before, after all. And she knew Mark was interested in girls, or he wouldn't have slept with her, would he? It would have unnecesarily complicated matters to tell her that her new love interest was perhaps a little on the fruity side, and perhaps a little smitten with April's rock n' sex god of a boyfriend.

Maureen put on a fakely vacant expression and adapted an overtly sarcastic tone. "Oh...Mark? Hmm, let me think. Who the fuck else? God, why would you fucking lie to me? You're my best friend!"

April smoothed her hair unconsciously, fiddling with one of the ties on her shirt. "I know, I know...I'm sorry. I just thought you'd think it was weird if I told you."

"Of course I'd think it was weird! It IS fucking weird! God, no wonder he won't fuck me! April, you made me look like an idiot. I've been trying to seduce a gay guy for what, a month now?"

April rolled her eyes. Enough with the theatrics already. "Two weeks, and he's not gay. He fucked me, remember?"

"Yeah, but I heard him talking to...whoever the new guy is. He says he doesn't want girls OR boys, he just wants Roger." She sighed out of the side of her mouth, blowing her hair up in a temporary gust.

"Fuck," April swore, before registering the rest of what her friend had said. "Wait...new guy? What new guy?"

Maureen shrugged. "I don't know, he was talking to Mark when I got there. I went back to get my purse, and Mark was talking to some random black guy about kissing Roger earlier." She smirked at April's shocked expression. "Yeah, apparently no one told him, either. Good to know I'm not the only one who's out of the loop."

"Fuck, fuck, that fucking backstabbing WHORE!" April kicked the trash can as hard as she could, wincing as the force of the blow sunk in.

Maureen's eyes widened slightly. "Honey, I think living with Roger's rubbing off on you."

"Shit," April muttered quietly. "He promised me. That stupid, insecure, cheating, backstabbing little faggot!"

"April...seriously, honey. If anything, this is a good thing."

April whirled to face her. "What do you mean, a good thing?"

Maureen smiled grimly. "Roger turned him down. Now you know for sure he doesn't want Mark, he wants you."

April was quiet for a moment. There was a loose thread danging from the tie of her shirt; she relentlessly pinched it off. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, yeah. He was telling the guy how he kissed Roger, and Roger doesn't want him." She glared at April for a moment as if she blamed her friend completely for the next part. "He also said that Roger told him to go out with me. I'm not a fucking consolation prize, you know!"

"I know, Mo, I know." The fear that had seized her chest upon hearing that Mark had made a real move on her man was starting to dissipate upon hearing that maybe, just maybe, all her fears about Roger's supposed bisexuality were unjustified.

Seemingly mollified, Maureen relaxed from her 'battle stance' into her usual 'ever moment is a photo op' pose, hand on hip. "So. This new guy...he's kinda hot."

April raised her eyebrows. "If it's who I think it is, he's also kinda gay."

"Shit, that's right. I forgot...he said he's fucked Roger."

April blinked very fast, certain she couldn't have heard correctly. "Wait...what now?"

"Oh, yeah." There was a definite smirk on Maureen's face, watching April's skin change colors. "He said that they got drunk and high one night, and he fucked Roger. AND he said it wasn't Roger's first time with a guy."

April shook her head. "No. That can't be right. It's just not Roger's thing."

"Apparently, he's a fucking rock star."

"What?"

Maureen shrugged. "That's what the other guy said Roger said. What's his name, anyway?"

"Collins, his name is Tom Collins."

Maureen giggled. "Like the drink?"

"Yeah, like the drink," April replied, a little distracted. "What's this about being a fucking rock star?"

"I guess it means he can fuck whoever he wants."

"The fuck he can," April grumbled. "He's only allowed to fuck me. Not Collins, not Mark, not...fuck, why couldn't he be a normal guy and cheat on me with girls?" She furiously rubbed at a piece of hair that found its way into her eye, leaning back against the wall. Maureen was at her side in a second.

"Honey...he hasn't cheated on you. Mark kissed him, not the other way around. And the thing between him and Tom Collins—I'm sorry, it's still really funny to think that that's someone's actual name—was like, a long time ago." She wrapped an arm around her friend. "Come on, honey, it's cold. I want to go home."

April sighed, but followed reluctantly. They were almost at their doorstop when Maureen 'pulled a Maureen', stopping dead in her tracks and exclaiming, "Oh my god! You know what I just thought of?"

"What is it this time?" Knowing Maureen, her sudden idea could have been a Halloween costume that had just occurred to her for next year, a new apartment, or the answer to a test she'd missed in the fifth grade.

"How cool would it be if I could get him to fall in love with me?" Her face had lit up as it always did when she came across a challenge.

"Wait...Mark? Get Mark to fall in love with you? But he's--"

"In love with Roger, I know, but come on...wouldn't that be great? Then I can play around with him, you can have Roger, and everyone's happy! Besides, it's not like I've never turned a guy before."

April made a motion to protest, but stopped. It was true, she had. Or at least thought she had. Trevor Green had confessed to her in senior year that he'd heard Maureen boasting that she was so hot, even gay guys would turn for her, and had pretended to swing the other way. It had worked, Maureen had gone right after him, and Trevor had been the happiest guy in school. "Yeah...I remember," she said uncertainly, smiling.

"Good. So everyone gets what they want! Yay! And now that I know what I'm up against," she gave April a somewhat-less-than-mock glare, "I'll definitely be able to do my best."

April rolled her eyes as she opened the door. "Knock yourself out, Mo." As her friend flounced in ahead of her, she sighed and said softly, "Good luck."

* * *

(previously, as a continuation of the scene in chapter 14)

Mark sighed. "No. I only like Roger. Collins...I think I love him."

Collins was both surprised and not simultaneously. "You love him? For real?"

"Yeah, I do. I mean, I think I do. I've lived with him for long enough to know, haven't I?"

"I don't know, Mark," Collins shrugged, "sometimes it takes a while." He didn't ask Mark how he knew, which relieved him immensely. "So...you kissed him for real? Like a real kiss?"

Mark was slightly stung. "Look, I might not have been with as many guys as you--"

"Wait, you've been with guys?"

"Well...no. But I still know what a real kiss is! I wasn't making it up."

"No, no, I was just wondering what _kind_ of kiss it was. You know, like a peck, or something else?"

Mark flushed. "Definitely something else.

Collins raised his eyebrows, a little impressed. "Hey, Mark...didn't know you had it in you."

Mark shrugged, a little embarrassed. "Yeah, well...you know." He stood up abruptly and started pacing. "So what the fuck do I do?"

Collins sighed again. "Mark, I told you, I don't think you should--"

"Not like that!" Mark snapped. "Look...I know it's not right for us, you know? Not like that. I mean, he made it very clear he didn't want me. But how do I keep what I did from fucking up our friendship totally?"

His friend waved a hand at him, fumbling for something in his duffel bag. "It's Roger. He'll pretend to forget about it if you will."

"What, really?"

"Aha!" Triumphant, Collins produced a joint from his bag. "Oh, yeah. Easier than actually dealing with shit, you know?" He rolled his eyes, lighting up and blowing a lungful of smoke at Mark, who promptly coughed.

"Ugh...Collins, could you please blow that away from me?"

"Sorry, man," the anarchist said with a grin. "You're just such an easy target."

Mark nodded grudgingly. Even he had to admit that was the truth. "Yeah, I know."

Collins grinned more widely. "I can't believe you've lived with me and Rog all these months and never even smoked pot."

"Yeah, well, we can't all be anarchists and rock stars, can we?"

Collins laughed, for the first time that afternoon sounding as relaxed as the Collins Mark remembered. "Heh...ain't that the truth. Don'tcha just wish you could be, though?" He waved the joint at his young friend. "It's a hell of a lot less stressful."

Mark sighed and sat down next to him on the floor, accepting the joint as he'd seen his roommates do a hundred times. "Know what? Why not?"

* * *

That's all for right now, chicklets. But I'm going to see RENT this Saturday in NYC (Joshua Kobak is playing Roger for a limited time, of COURSE I'm going!), so I'll probably get lots more inspired! Of course, I'm not even lying, this would have been one of those stupid abandoned stories if I didn't keep getting such fabulous reviews. I love you all! 


End file.
